


Hands Down

by Dawnwind



Category: Racing Game, The Professionals
Genre: Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, Kinky sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4908439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bodie and Doyle investigate a storehouse full of stolen goods, they find a pair of racehorses. They call in their friends, Sid Halley and Chico Barnes, experts in the racing world. Who owned the horses and where they came from are their focus until the horses are stolen again, along with Sid Halley. Throw in emeralds, confiscated cocaine, and a foul-mouthed suspect, and it’s no wonder Bodie and Doyle would prefer to indulge in an evening of kinky sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands Down

**Author's Note:**

> Take a look at the brilliant Pros/Racing Game vid created by DoyleonCanvas
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/4945396

Hands Down  
By Dawnwind

 

From the outside, the farm looked deserted. The fences needed mending, the earth in the fields had not been ploughed for years and the window panes of the house were smashed. Ivy had claimed the front of the stone cottage with a vengeance, almost covering the entire front door. No one could walk through that portal without a machete. 

Bodie had begun to think they’d missed the correct turning or “summat like tha’,” echoing the words of the old bloke they’d questioned a mile back. But these were the coordinates Cowley had given them. If they’d been sent on a wild goose chase, it was six operatives out of London all at the same time. In hindsight, was that wise? 

Bodie scanned the yard, uninspired, smelling the roses, carnations and peonies growing in riotous perfusion around a decorative, dry, bird bath. Mint, rosemary and a plethora of other neglected but hardy herbs spilled out of an old kitchen garden. Who owned this place? Why hadn’t Cowley thought to include that vital information?

Doyle was already walking farther down the lane with Anson and McCabe in his wake. Bodie attempted, without success, to keep his mind off Doyle’s pretty arse, like two round melons moving in tandem inside a blue denim sack, decorated with a rectangular patch. Bodie had deep feelings about that patch.

“Think this is the place?” Murphy asked doubtfully, crossing his arms over his chest. “Seems like the owner abandoned some time in the last decade.”

“Why would a smuggler live here?” Cougan sneered. The bright sunlight turned his red hair to fire.

“Doubt Everett Knowland lives here,” Doyle remarked, stooping to brush a fingertip over a pink petal. “Far below the style he’s become accustomed.” He skirted the garden, going towards a line of trees behind the main house.

Shaking his head to keep himself on the case, Bodie looked at the ground. “Fresh tyre tracks,” he pointed out, bending down to touch a spot of dark fluid. “Oil, still sticky. Someone drove down this lane in the last day, not in the 1970s.”

Murphy shrugged, unimpressed.

“Bodie!” Doyle called. “We’ve found it!”

He was out of Bodie’s sight lines. Following the sound of Doyle’s voice, Bodie ran down the rutted lane with Murphy and Cougan. They had to go around the wall of trees that shielded more structures from the rest of the yard.

The barn was massive—far larger than what Bodie would have expected after seeing the house. There were clearly other buildings beyond, as well.

Doyle grinned, all crooked teeth and puckish bedevilment, from the open door. “The treasures of Aladdin await, my friends.”

The interior was vast, a repository of enormous quantities of illegal goods, all either stolen or smuggled into the UK from points east. Most likely, from the intel CI5 had obtained, the Soviet Union.

“Like the last scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Bodie said, scanning the immense amount of merchandise. He could easily imagine Indiana Jones combing through the back for some hidden artefact.

“Except we’ll have to catalogue every bleedin’ item,” Doyle said with a grimace. “All right, you lot,” he called to Anson, McCabe, Murphy and Cougan, “take a row and start writing down what’s in here.”

“Just need a general inventory,” Bodie added before Murphy could complain. “Those poor blokes from customs and excise will have to wade in and match serial numbers and the like to whatever they have on file as stolen or illegally imported.”

“Don’t you mean smuggled?” Anson snorted derisively, lighting up a large cigar.

McCabe snarled at him, waving away the smoke.

“Get that out of here, Anson.” Doyle pointed to the door. “Contaminating the evidence, mate. Will you r/t Jax in the last village? Tell ‘im to raise Betty on the blower to have a lorry sent out.”

“Sod it.” He walked out, puffing furiously as if determined to leave his mark on the place. 

Cougan dug six clipboards out of his rucksack and handed them round with a rueful smile. As the newest agent, even after a year at CI5, he was frequently burdened with carrying the necessary supplies.

“We just verify that this could be some of the stuff Everett Knowland ‘imported’, yeah?” Murphy clarified, the sarcastic quote marks around imported loud and clear. He tucked his clipboard and biro under his arm. “He’s like a clearing house for all of the U.K. Thought we’d already established that.”

“Get the names of those he does business with, so much the better,” Doyle added. He sidled up to Bodie. They both walked past Cougan and Murphy to a row beyond. McCabe took the next section. 

Bodie smiled inwardly when Doyle’s hand brushed his. If the others noticed, they wouldn’t have seen anything out of the ordinary. They knew that Bodie and Doyle were attached at the hip. Anyone watching would certainly not be able to tell that they carried on a clandestine master/slave relationship. Bodie was very much counting on a long weekend off when this case was finished. He and Doyle hadn’t played in weeks—too many obbos had eaten into their free time. 

“Can’t believe we have to slog through all this.” Doyle stooped to itemise several cases of Russian vodka. “We’re more suited to chasing after international assassins and political intrigue.”

“Think highly of yourself, do you?” Bodie asked with a grin. He caught a glint of silver on Doyle’s left wrist and his cock twitched. Conditioned, he was. 

Last fall, Doyle finally got accustomed to mild restraint in the form of two innocuous leather wrist bands. Since then, he and Bodie had been experimenting with different methods of bondage. Doyle had vetoed the old reliable metal government issue handcuff because it reminded him too much of their job. Bodie had to agree. 

Ditto regular rope. Doyle had been tied up one too many times with dire consequences. However, neither of them had been undeterred by the constraints—and Doyle himself had been the one to find the fashionable silver bracelet made of thick links. 

In public, he wore the heavy chain on his left wrist nearly every day. Sometimes he substituted with the leather bands on both wrists, but as the weather got warmer, he’d confessed that the silver links weren’t as sweaty. Bodie loved the look of the chain around his partner’s slender wrist. He had a matching chain, plus a carabineer that could link the two together for their play, in his drawer at home.

“And you do, too,” Doyle said cheekily, giving Bodie a wicked smile.

That only made him want to push the little bugger on top of a case of Polish cigarettes and fuck him senseless. Instead, Bodie turned his back on Doyle to concentrate on listing the contents of their row. “Shut it, Doctor Who.”

“I’ve watched that programme with you often enough that no one calls ‘im by that,” Doyle retorted,

His mind still half on his fantasy of Doyle’s naked arse wriggling, Bodie didn’t really pay attention to the noise outside the barn the first time he heard it. The second time, there was no mistaking the shrill equine squeal. His heart rate accelerating, Bodie stood up from the crate of caviar he’d logged in. “Was that—“

“A horse,” Doyle affirmed.

“Which way?” Bodie turned his head slowly, walking to the back end of the building. There was a small door set into the larger barn doors. Now that he was listening, he heard more sounds of horses, plural. Whinnies and neighing—possibly very hungry horses.

Doyle jogged over, shoving open the narrow door to the outside. There were two smaller structures behind the main barn. The first looked like stables, the second clearly a small bungalow to house farm workers or stable boys.

“C’mon,” Bodie said, walking cautiously to the stables. He put a hand on the grip of his pistol in the shoulder holster but didn’t slide it out.

Doyle flattened himself against the outer wall of the building and pushed the door open with the barrel of his gun. His green eyes sought Bodie’s for half a second.

Bodie nodded minutely, staying to the other side of the door until they both were sure there was no-one on the other side. The only sounds were from restless, unhappy horses.

After the bright sunshine of midday, the interior of the stable was dim and full of shadows. Bodie never liked not knowing what was around him. He and Doyle spent a full minute scoping out the place, but except for four stalls, two complete with horses, there weren’t that many places to hide.

“What a beauty,” Doyle said, approaching the first stall. 

The horse was tall and elegant, his coat so black and shiny that he appeared to be cut from a bolt of black satin. Seeing humans nearby, the horse neighed loudly, insistently. 

The smaller horse in the second stall was totally opposite colouring. Pale, almost ghostly white with a silvery mane and tail like a legendary unicorn minus the horn. She whinnied shrilly, demanding attention, and stomped her hooves.

“Not exactly what I expected at a smuggler’s warehouse,” Bodie mused, putting out a hand to the white horse. She tossed her mane restlessly. “Reckon they’re stolen as well?”

“By the sounds of it, they’ve not eaten,” Doyle said, stroking the black horse’s neck. “Not an oat or bit of hay to be seen, and their water troughs have gone dry.” He glanced around the stable in a fury. The horse nickered as if to ask what was taking so long. “Bloody poor service, eh? I’ll set you to rights, my beauty.”

Grabbing a line dangling from the ceiling, Bodie turned on an overhead bulb. The brightness illuminated all the shadowy corners and he spied a battered holdall shoved up against the wall of the tack room. When he reached down to pick it up, he saw a bale of hay in the farthest stall. “Some hay, over there,” Bodie called out, unzipping the bag.

While Doyle did a quick mucking out of the stalls, Bodie investigated the contents of the bag. Sorting through papers, he realised most were written in what looked like Afghani. He’d spent a short time in that cold, mountainous country and had never wanted to go back. He certainly hadn’t learned to read the language. A few of the lists and inventories were in English or Spanish. At least CI5 had a starting point in sorting out the original owners of the stolen goods.

He paused, listening to Doyle murmur to the horses. They’d recently visited their friends Sid Halley and Chico Barnes at their new horse farm; the sound of Doyle raking manure into a pile and putting clean hay and water was oddly familiar. 

The horses were munching contentedly when Doyle came by to lean over Bodie’s shoulder. “What’ve you found?” Doyle asked.

“Oi, you smell like a horse.” Bodie wrinkled his nose, waving his hand to get rid of the odour. He passed along a sheet of a paper. “Looks to be the black one’s pedigree chart. Name’s Syah.”

Doyle took the list, running his finger to the names to Syah’s sire and dam. “He’s an Arabian. I don’t recognize any of these horses from racing in the last couple years, but we know who might—“

“Need to call Sid and Chico,” Bodie said with a grin. 

“Been a long time since we worked on a case with them,” Doyle agreed. “Any useful names of suspects there?”

“It’s all written in a foreign language!” Bodie protested, shoving the papers back into the bag.

“And here I thought you were proficient in several,” Doyle teased. “Bit of French, enough German to order beer—“

“Let’s not forget Kharistani.” Bodie jabbed a finger at him.

“You know what would be really useful about now?” Doyle took two steps away and ducked into a small tack room.

“A telephone?” Bodie said rhetorically.

“Bang on!” Doyle said happily, holding a heavy, old fashioned receiver to the length of its cord.

~*~

Chico Barnes squeezed the small ball in his right hand four more times. He hated the damned boring strengthening exercises, but he hated the weakness in his wrist and arm even more so. It had been seven months since his wrist and forearm were smashed into pieces. Two surgeries: one to insert rods and screws to align the broken-in-four-places ulna and broken-in-half radius, and another visit to the surgical theatre to remove the hardware. Accustomed to a natural limberness and the strength that came from being a black belt in judo and karate, Chico could not abide the residual weakness from the fractures. 

It had been one upheaval and disruption after the other ever since the end of 1983. While Chico was recuperating, his partner Sid Halley had bought a traumatized racehorse. The intention had been to have an old friend train Zarathustra back to his full potential. But when the trainer, Alexander Fitzhugh, died suddenly from a stroke, Sid had gone all out and bought a house with a stable to keep the horse. 

Because of his injuries, not to mention the move, Chico had lost his regular gig as a martial arts instructor at two public schools and an inner London gym. Subsequently, he had found local dojos and was back in training, but he sorely missed teaching kids. Living out here, surrounded with horses, sheep and cattle was Sid’s dream—and Chico was all for supporting his partner, but he hadn’t found his own place yet.

Glancing around the large sunny kitchen, Chico nodded. He’d done his bit to tidy up after breakfast and had no chores slated until later in the day. This time was for him. He tightened the black belt of his gi, and inhaled to centre himself. Chico moved smoothly into _Jigo-hontai,_ a basic defensive posture. He breathed out, releasing all the negativity. He was generally an optimistic person but he’d begun to despair of getting back to one hundred per cent. He moved through the familiar routines, letting the muscle memory sooth his soul. There was no need for all the aggro he was bringing on himself. A bit like what Sid did almost every day of the year. 

That made him laugh, which went a long way to brightening the whole morning. An hour’s worth of practice helped put his brain in the right place. On the weekend, he was going into his old dojo in London to qualify for the fourth degree black belt. 

Hearing a car engine in the drive out front of the two storey stone cottage, Chico finished his last set. It was sure to be Sid arriving home from his medical appointment, but one could never be too careful. Chico found the quiet of the country disconcerting after the constant noise of the city, and had developed an annoying unease when he was alone on the farm.

He went to the front door, swinging it open in time to see Sid Halley walk up the gravel drive to their front garden. Not some unwelcome intruder intent on doing damage to them or their place: Chico shook off the left over anxieties from their often dangerous job as horse racing investigators.

“Wot’d the mechanic say?” he asked, leaning against the door frame. He liked watching Sid, particularly his easy stride and the way his beautiful dark eyes lit up at the sight of his partner.

“You do know that in America, mechanic is slang for assassin?” Sid asked lightly, raising his steel core bio-electric arm as if he was about to judo chop Chico’s ribs. 

Chico smirked, mock parrying the blow. “Innit that what you calls ‘im yourself?” he asked. “Claimed he’d be the death of you the last visit.” 

“All the measuring and talk of alignment of the—“ Sid pulled a face, passing Chico to walk into the lounge, “stump in the socket of the prosthesis is bloody boring.”

 _And it ached._ Sid wouldn’t admit that out loud, but Chico knew it to be true. Sid was never more stroppy than when having to deal with side effects of his amputated left hand. Chico left the front door open to catch what little breeze there was in this stifling weather.

“Too hot to be going through your katas inside the house, isn’t it?” Sid dabbed his finger in a bead of sweat on Chico’s forehead, leaning in for a kiss.

The physical contact was exactly the thing to chase away the last of Chico’s anxieties. He breathed against Sid’s mouth, deepening the kiss. A lazy afternoon naked on the bed sounded exactly right on a hot day. “Got to keep my ‘and in.” he waggled his fingers, “those lit’le bleeders training with Stan aren’t gettin’ any younger.”

“Twenty-four years old last Christmas eve and now you’re an old man, eh?” Sid chuckled, setting the London Times he’d had under his arm on the table.

“Yeah, yeah.” Chico nodded, going with the teasing. Sid was seven years older. “I can still take you on, granddad.”

“That remains to be seen,” Sid said loftily. “In other news, Featherstone’s convinced me that this model—“ he opened and closed the plastic fingers of the false hand, “is outmoded. The battery won’t hold a charge any longer, and I qualify for a new upgraded model that has longer battery life and more mobility.” Fishing through his pocket, Sid pulled out cigarette and lighter. After igniting the end of his cig, he flattened out the London Times for a read.

“That’s fantastic!” Chico said. After his own break, he completely understood the need for mobility and flexibility. “When d’you get this limb of the future?”

The phone ringing cut off Sid’s reply. 

~*~

Doyle leaned back, easing the pain in his back and wiped sweat off his brow. What were the odds that they’d be at hard physical labour on what was the hottest day of the year so far? The temperature had to be near twenty-seven degrees. Made for gorgeous weather, sky bright blue with nary a cloud to be seen, but he could use some cold water about now. He listened to the contented nickering of the two horses in the stable, waiting for Bodie to come out of the barn with his load.  
Compared to a stake-out in a chilly bedsit in the middle of winter, this wasn’t half bad, all things considered.

There were fewer men to do the work, though. Murphy and Cougan had left, called back to London to help with what would—with all luck—be a raid on Everett Knowland’s main base of operations, and his arrest.

They’d driven out about noon, just as a removal van had arrived, along with Jax bringing takeaway. That was two hours ago and the sandwiches had long since been eaten. All the carrying and shoving of boxes into the lorry had reignited Doyle’s hunger. He longed for an apple, maybe a peach, something juicy and sweet.

“What I wouldn’t give for a beer,” Bodie whispered, dumping a stack of crates in back of the van. 

“You and me both!” Doyle sighed, rubbing the sore place in his lower back. “There’s no more room in this lorry, and the barn’s not half empty.”

He gave Doyle a long, slow appraisal and smiled. “You look good in sweat.”

Doyle didn’t have time to respond because Anson came out with two boxes marked with Chinese characters. It was a tight fit, but he managed to shove them inside.

“Who’ll be the poor bloke left behind here to guard the remainder until tomorrow when the Cow’ll sends another lorry?” Anson asked crossly, batting away a fly. 

“Not us,” Bodie said, leaning down to turn on a tap beside the barn. He splashed his face with water. “We’ll need to go with Halley and Barnes, to see to the horses.”

“When was that decided?” McCabe demanded, crossing his arms over the damp stains on his blue shirt. “We should draw straws.”

“Draw straws for staying with the remainder of the stolen booty or go along to shovel horse shit?” Doyle asked lazily, leaning on the side of the van. He wasn’t about to be separated from Bodie, nor did he want to miss out on a chance to visit his old friends. 

As if thinking about Halley and Barnes made them appear, a horse trailer bumped into the lane. Jax waved them on toward the back.

“Oi!” Chico hailed, leaping out once Sid had parked the large vehicle beside the removal van. His blond hair catching the sun, he looked around, wrinkling his nose. “Don’t look like a very in’abital farm, does it?”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover.” Anson laughed. “Hiding very expensive swag.”

“Including racehorses?” Sid asked, climbing down from the cab. He shook hands with Bodie and Doyle.

“Thanks for coming at such short notice, Sid,” Bodie said.

“You’ve intrigued me,” Sid commented with a smile, keeping his prosthetic arm in his pocket. 

Doyle wasn’t surprised. Halley and Barnes had worked with CI5 more than once, but Sid tended to keep his false hand hidden even amongst friends.

McCabe and Anson nodded in greeting and ambled back into the barn. “It’s rock-paper-scissors for us, then, to suss out who has to stay behind,” McCabe called over his shoulder.

“How’d you discover a stolen horse of all things?” Sid asked.

“We assume they’re racehorses,” Doyle said, leading the way to the stables. He was glad to have Halley there. The horses had eaten what he’d fed them, but he was well aware that racehorses were highly sensitive and could react badly to even the most benign upset in their routines. Who knew how long Syah and the beautiful white horse had been here, uncared for by proper horse experts? “You be the judge—you know a damned sight more than we do about the subject.”

“So ‘ow’d your lot end up ‘ere?” Chico asked, surveying the neglected farm. “Barn and stables look like they’ve been seen to in the last fortnight, but the rest of the place should have been flattened long ago.”

“CI5’s had an eye on a fence called Everett Knowland for years, but while he’s been the number one go-to man in London for flogging the odd stolen merchandise and a bit of money laundering, he was never a high priority,” Bodie explained, coming up behind the other three as they approached the horses. “Suddenly, in the last few months, his business has expanded tenfold and he seems to be the source of far more international fare. We’re convinced, but have no proof, that he’s a conduit for drugs.”

“Dir’y business,” Chico muttered.

“Well, well,” Sid said softly as if he wasn’t actually listening to Bodie at all. His attention was focused completely on the horses. “You definitely have racehorses, here.” He took a step closer to Syah, letting the horse become accustomed to him before entering the stall enclosure. 

Bodie, Doyle and Chico crowded in around the open gate, watching. Doyle could smell his partner’s sweat, feel the heat radiating off his bare forearms and had to smother the rampant desire to press a kiss onto Bodie’s neck. If they only had time to give into some erotic play. But he had the suspicion that would be shelved until the connections to Knowland were chased down.

“Not that many pure black ‘orses on the circuit,” Chico observed. “’e got a lip tattoo, Sid-boy?”

“This horse was definitely registered.” Sid gently rolled Syah’s upper lip to reveal a tattoo above his teeth line. “He’s a three year old, shown by the K, the five numbers are his ID and the asterisk proves that he was born out of North America.”

Doyle nodded. He should have remembered about the lip tattoos.

Sid lead Syah out of the stall and into a small paddock just beyond, watching him walk around. It was clear the magnificent black horse was favouring his front right leg. 

“He’s lame,” Doyle observed. Could that be why Knowland’s people hadn’t taken as good care of the animal as they should have?

“Yeah.” Sid gently ran his hand down Syah’s leg. The horse blew noisily through his nostrils but didn’t protest. “He’s a good hearted boy. There’s a bit of heat on his cannon, but it’s not serious.” He stood, giving Syah a good scratch behind his ears. “Shoes look worn, and there’s a crack in the right one. I’d say that was the cause of his limping.” 

“Be right as rain soon’s the farrier comes out to change ‘em,” Chico said with a nod. “The h’advantages of living out in the country. Blacksmith on retainer.”

“I knew you’d find something to your liking.” Doyle chuckled. He understood Chico’s discomfort at being so far from city lights. He’d spent most of his life with the roar of buses and cabs going past, but he did relish the quiet, slower pace, as well.

“We’ve got what we think are his papers,” Bodie put in. “But what about the pretty girl over there?”

“Jockey Club keeps a list of all ‘orses and their tattoos,” Chico explained. “Easy-peasy to find out ‘oo owned them originally.”

“There have been instances of people attempting to re-tattoo a different number,” Sid said, leaving Syah in the paddock to walk over to the white horse’s stall, “but that’s usually very obvious. Then, as long as the horses are registered properly, we could verify the chestnut on the back of their leg, as well.”

“There must have been quite a lot of traffic to and from this holding,” Doyle said. “Our squad’ll have to interview the locals. Neighbour to the south says he heard lorries every few days for the last two months.” The old man hadn’t been all that willing to finger any person in particular, but he’d complained mightily about the noise.

“Murphy and our lad Ginger are meant to be collecting Knowland and his bullyboys as we speak,” Bodie continued. 

“There are even fewer pure white horses like this in racing.” Sid ran his right hand down the filly’s neck. “She’s gorgeous, and if I remember rightly, her name is Faerie Lights.”

“Sounds familiar,” Chico clicked his fingers loudly. “She won…”

Faerie Lights squealed, rearing. She jerked away from Halley, bucking wildly. Bodie retreated with a whispered curse but Doyle stayed where he was as Faerie pawed the air and bared her teeth. He hadn’t expected her to be the dangerous one. Funny how colour had given him a primal sense of ease. He trusted white and not black.

Syah nickered softly, blowing through his nose, clearly trying to get through to Faerie.

“Shush, shush, little one,” Sid soothed, giving her space. “Hup, hup…” He kept both hands away from his body, waiting out her tantrum. “No more clicking, Chico,” Sid said quietly.

“Noted,” Chico remarked wryly as Faerie settled back on all fours, panting. He’d stayed far away from the restive horse.

Faerie quivered all over, her skin crawling, and she raised her head toward Syah. The other horse whinnied soothingly.

“Ray, find us some water and a cloth to dry her off,” Sid requested, all his attention focussed on Faerie.

Surprised at the interaction between the two horses, Doyle poured water from a tap and found some rags that, while not exactly clean, were at least dry. Could horses be friends, like he and Bodie or Chico and Sid? He handed over the bucket, waiting until Halley nodded that it was all clear for him to gently towel off the sweat. Faerie’s damp sides heaved, her eyes rolling, looking first at Sid and then him with skittish fear.

“You know a race she’s won?” Bodie asked Chico. 

“Saudi Arabia,” he answered, hunkering down on his haunches as if realising he’d better get comfortable because they were going to be here a while. “Prince Abdullah—wot’s his name again, squire?”

“Abdullah Makki was a student at Oxford when I was riding regularly,” Sid answered over his shoulder, still gentling Faerie. He nuzzled her affectionately, glancing over at Syah with amusement. “Think he’s her minder?”

“Think they’re in love, mind you,” Chico mimicked his mild Welsh accent perfectly.

“Sod off,” Sid said, raising his false hand and bending down the fourth finger and pinkie. It was a clumsier gesture done with plastic, but quite effective none the less.

The smell of warm damp horse in his nostrils, Doyle finished his job and stepped back to let Sid close the stall door. “This Makki?” he prodded.

“Yeah.” Sid scrubbed the back of his neck with his real hand. “He liked the horses, used to come down to get acquainted with the jockeys, and we got on, y’know. He’d buy a round at the pub after a race, really down to earth, not at all what I thought a prince would act like.”

“Can’t imagine Charles or Andrew going to my local and paying for a pint,” Bodie said with a grin. “Edward, maybe.”

“Long story short, he owns Faerie,” Chico added. “Or, should I say owned.”

“What year?” Doyle asked, looking back at the beautiful creature. 

“Faerie Lights was regularly winning races in Saudi Arabia in 1981,” Sid explained. He went over to the tap and splashed some water on his dusty hands and flushed face.

“I’ve heard racing is really popular over there,” Bodie said.

“When?” Doyle asked bluntly, elbowing his partner.

“That programme, Sports Chat, after the cricket match,” Bodie said with that infuriating superiority of his.

“She also won in Australia, the Melbourne Cup,” Chico said, miming snapping his fingers with one eye on the now placid Faerie. “Think Makki sold ‘er?” he asked his partner.

“I didn’t think me old son would ever sell his princess, but I’ve not spoken to him in more than a year,” Sid said pensively. “I’ll try to ring him up soon—“

“You do that,” Bodie agreed. “Shall we load these two into the horse box?”

The phone rang. Doyle stared at the device, surprised. He hadn’t expected anyone to ring them here. They had given CI5 the number, so it was as likely to be Cowley as anyone else. There was the off-chance that it could be Knowland’s associates. It paid to be cautious.

“You going to answer that?” Chico asked.

Bodie leaned into the tack room to grab the handset. 

“Bodie…” Doyle warned. He didn’t know why he did, certainly not to get up Bodie’s nose or anything. 

Bodie nodded once, holding up a traffic policeman’s stiffened palm. “’Allo, allo?” he responded broadly into the phone like the Frenchman in the telly programme. His cocked left eyebrow softened and he nodded, listening.

Doyle took a breath, relaxing. Had to be someone from CI5 then. 

“You lead Syah out to the van first,” Sid said to Chico. “To show Faerie it’s safe. I’m assuming she’ll follow, but we may have to cover her eyes if she’s skittish.”

Chico nodded, taking Syah’s lead rope whilst Sid got the white horse ready.

“We’d planned to go with Halley and Barnes to guard the horses,” Bodie said into the phone, sounding resigned.

 _What now_? Doyle thought irritably. 

“Yes, sir,” Bodie groaned, hanging up. He looked over at Doyle with a rueful expression. “Change in plans, I’m afraid.”

“I got that.” Doyle watched Syah walk quietly out of the barn behind Chico.

Sid’s instinct had been on the nose: Faerie nickered nervously as her friend disappeared and nearly trotted after him, almost running Sid down in the process.

“Slow, slow, my lovely,” Sid murmured to her, going toward the horse box.

Bodie waited until they were completely out of earshot. “Murphy and company collected several members of Knowland’s mob but not the ringleader himself. One of ‘em’s Ponce Eddie.”

“Blimey, not him.” Doyle knew why Cowley wanted them now. Eddie had had a crush on Doyle since his copper days. 

He took a step in close beside Doyle. “And if anyone can--” 

“Get him to talk, it’d be me,” Doyle finished, kicking at a clod of dirt next to the barn door. “No evening jawing over old times at Sid and Chico’s local, then?” 

“I’d much prefer other endeavours,” Bodie said gloomily. He clasped Doyle’s wrist, pushing the links of the silver chain gently but firmly into his skin. 

Doyle had to brace himself against the barn wall or risk going down on his knees in supplication. He wanted the same, very badly. “Bo-die,” he wheedled, both warning and appeal. “Tell me when and I’ll hold you to it.”

~*~

Traffic was horrendous back to London. Long stretches of roadworks, more than one car accident to slow the crawl of vehicles even further and the radiator busting on a large American car in the centre lane which forced all the other cars to go carefully around to avoid a collision. The Capri had never had air conditioning—what was the point eleven and a half months out of a year? However, the lack of left Bodie dripping with sweat and ready to throttle the next driver who cut in front of him. Exactly the wrong time to have set out from Glastonbury to London, but when Cowley beckoned, they came.

“We’ll be needing petrol,” Bodie said for the first time in nearly an hour. While he and Doyle often had loads to say to one another, it had been an exhausting day and Doyle had gone to sleep shortly after they left Knowland’s farm. “Should ring HQ, explain the delay.”

“Is he likely to accept the reason?” Doyle asked lazily, opening one eye. “He’d expect us to somehow avoid the smash-ups and get to CI5 pronto.”

“If I had a Panda car with the little blue light flashing, that might be possible.” Bodie chuckled. “As it is, the petrol gauge is on red and I’m peckish.”

Doyle rubbed his stomach. “Love a curry or some soup.” 

With the way he was slouched down in the seat so that his head rested on the car window, his belly looked concave. He definitely needed feeding. Bodie had a perverse enjoyment of not only teasing Ray with all sorts of food he’d never choose, but also simply getting his partner to eat. It wasn’t that Doyle was really all that picky, he just had very different tastes to Bodie. That was the challenge.

He risked a second look at Doyle’s long angular body; his t-shirt wet with sweat and plastered to his chest, the bulge in his groin.

“Did Cowley give any more information than Ponce Eddie ready to spill the beans?” Doyle asked. “Drugs? Confiscated cash, that sort of thing?”

“Now that you ask, quite a large haul of cocaine was discovered,” Bodie said, dividing his time between eyeing Doyle’s cock pressed hard against his skin tight jeans and scanning for the next turn-off on the roadway. Signage proclaimed there was a BP station and a place with the uninspired name of The Tea Shoppe coming in 2.5 miles.

“Cocaine?” Doyle sat up straighter.

Deprived of the sight of Doyle’s wares, Bodie went back to concentrating on his driving. He slid the Capri past a Volkswagen Golf driven by a sour faced old woman. The sudden burst of speed had the added benefit of sending a waft of petrol fumes in through the open window. It stunk up the car but did dry the sweat down Bodie’s back. 

“Yeah,” he answered belatedly to Doyle’s question.

“Not heroin then,” Doyle mused. “Which is more common. Cocaine’s been the drug of choice in the US, but not so much in the UK. Interesting.”

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on such things.” Doyle was always a font of information.

“Leftover interest from when I was a copper,” Doyle said off-hand, pulling his t-shirt away from his chest to get some air movement. “Time Magazine, the International Tribune, as well as the London Times all have had fascinating articles on trends in drugs usage.”

“Thank you, Professor Doyle.” Bodie was finding Doyle far more distracting than the other motorists. 

“Have you heard of crack cocaine?” Doyle asked, shifting in his seat so that his shoulder pressed against the door. 

“Heard the term, don’t know much about it.” Bodie pretended he was not drooling over his partner and adroitly navigated the car off the motorway. 

“It’s gaining ground in London, particularly around the dock areas like a house on fire,” Doyle explained with a frown. “It’s cocaine that’s been prepared with ethanol, and distilled water, and then cooked into a small rock. The rock is smoked to bring on an intense but very short lived high.”

“Smashing.” Bodie curled his lip, pulling into the BP station.

“Incredibly addictive, but can cause heart attacks or strokes with only a single usage.” Doyle’s voice was soft but harsh. He clearly abhorred his subject matter.

“It never ceases to amaze me what people will do to get high.” Bodie shook his head, slightly sick to his stomach. He hated the insidious, overpowering control illegal drugs had on their users. Drug pushers were the filth of the earth. “That’s what our lad Knowland has his hand in? How the mighty have fallen.”

“Yeah, looks like.” Doyle climbed out of the car, surveying The Tea Shoppe with a grimace. “Think I’ve lost me appetite.”

~*~

“You took your sweet time,” Cowley said sourly, pulling off his spectacles to glare at them as Bodie and Doyle walked into the corridor near his office.

“You would call us back during rush hour on a Tuesday,” Doyle retorted irritably. If Cowley could point out the obvious, so could he. “You’ve got Ponce Eddie in the interrogation room?”

Bodie turned so only Doyle could see him and pinched his lips together, as if trying not to grin. 

Cowley’s eyes twitched between the two of them, as always aware that he was at least partially being played. He gestured with his spectacles toward the stairwell. “In room six. Get some useful information from your damned grass, Doyle. I want Knowland in custody forthwith.”

“As do I, sir,” Doyle said with far more sincerity. It didn’t pay to completely antagonise the old man. He had a point, and Doyle was on his side.

“Oh, and I’ve had a call from Halley and Barnes earlier, whilst you layabouts were at a caff.” 

Was that a faint smirk on Cowley’s face? Doyle glanced at Bodie and saw the confirmation. Cowley was using reverse psychology on them, the old dog. It quite often worked, too.

“Told you he‘d’ve preferred the lean and hungry look,” Doyle said, heading for the stairs.

“That’s all well and good, it suits you,” Bodie said with mock defensiveness. “I end up going rabid without me friend Ned Skinner.” He snorted. “Sid get the horses put to rights?” 

“He reported that Syah and Faerie Lights were tucked up with hay and warm mash for the night, awaiting the farrier in the morn,” Cowley said. “Once we trace the animal’s provenances, as well as why they were amongst the stolen goods, we’ll have more answers.”

“Hopefully, Eddie can provide some clarity,” Bodie said straight faced.

Doyle wanted to throttle him. This would be fishing at best. Although Ponce Eddie had always responded to him, he didn’t know exactly what to ask. What angle should he start with—the stolen goods or the cocaine?

Murphy was camped outside the interrogation room and appeared to have nodded off. His chin was resting on his chest, eyes closed, mouth open in a long, slow snore.

“Bodie!” Doyle said loudly. “Why’s that door open?” He elbowed Bodie, trying not to laugh out loud. “D’you think Eddie scarpered?”

“Uncle George will have Murph’s head for this,” Bodie declared dramatically, hands on his hips. He stood directly in front of Murphy so that when the slumbering lad bolted upright in alarm, Bodie straight armed him back into the chair.

“Wha—what are you goin’ on about?” Murphy asked wildly.

“Glad that kip brought you to your senses, old son,” Doyle commented, leaning against the door frame. “Had a tiring day, have you?” 

“Wasn’t asleep!” Murphy stole a look at the still closed door, heaved a sigh of relief and held up the key. “Have your way with ‘im, Doyle. Been asking for you and making great puppy dog eyes the entire time.”

“Know anything he can use to break our Eddie-kins?” Bodie asked, backing up to give Murphy room to stand.

“The squad caught them cack-footed,” Murphy said with a smug grin. “We burst into a warehouse near Chambers Wharf and corralled four of Knowland’s men—and I use that term loosely-- with nary a shot fired. They were playing cards, not minding the front gate.”

“And you found cocaine,” Doyle put in. “Any other drugs?”

“Mishmash, all manner of stuff.” Murphy shrugged. “Enough files to keep Research busy ‘til Christmas. One thing I recognised on a quick look—the numbers for Swiss bank accounts.”

“Oh, that could be useful.” Bodie grinned devilishly. “Any for the Grand Cayman’s?”

“Where’s that?” Murphy asked, with a blank look.

“In the Bahamas, you great oaf.” Doyle groaned, girding himself for what was to come.

“Never heard of it.” Murphy unlocked the door, waving them in with a flourish.

Doyle stood just inside, letting Bodie pass in front of him, so that he could look at Eddie before the man knew he was being observed. Sitting with his back to the door, Eddie was slouched in a chair, his hands cuffed to the wooden arms. Murphy’s partner Cougan was mostly ignoring him, standing at an angle from the prisoner, arms crossed over his chest as if guarding himself against attack.

 _So he felt it, too,_ Doyle thought.

Ponce Eddie looked like a woman—a very beautiful woman. Shiny blond hair cascaded in a smooth curl over his right shoulder. He was willowy, with long delicate hands decorated with numerous rings. His large blue eyes could probably lure any man to no good until the enthralled looked straight into those limpid pools and saw nastiness below the surface. Eddie had tiny breast mounds underneath his lavender spaghetti strap top and a masculine bulge at the groin of his hip-hugger jeans. 

Doyle found him decidedly creepy, and could feel a strange—he didn’t dare describe it as an aura, certainly not to Bodie—atmosphere of cruelty and viciousness.  
Although he’d never heard of Eddie actually killing anyone, Doyle could easily imagine him pulling the wings off flies and torturing moggies simply for the fun of it. He knew full well that Eddie had hurt some of the girls he’d once pimped, and had done a stint in prison. 

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, Eddie adored Doyle. He actually purred when he saw Doyle, which was so off-putting that Doyle had been sick the first time it happened when he was a copper. Luckily, he’d managed to leave the interview room beforehand—but had to endure the ribbing from his fellow policemen for weeks.

“Eddie,” he said loudly, taking a step forward.

“Oh, be still my beating ‘eart,” Eddie drawled, turning as much as he could in the confines of his chair. “You’ve come to rescue a damsel in me hour of need.” His voice was honey sweet, laced with Cockney. There was a faint hint of deceit and trickery remaining even when Eddie was happy.

Bodie raised a sardonic eyebrow at Doyle and faded into the background, giving him the lead.

“My heart would be better off smoking fags and eating fish and chips than conversing with you,” Doyle said flatly. “You asked for me—it had better be worth my while. Had a date with a horse.”

“My lamb, a horse? You are desperate—and when you could have spent your afternoon with moi.” Eddie thrust his narrow hips forward grotesquely, an aggressive smile playing on his lips.

“Somehow, I still ended up spending my afternoon with you,” Doyle reposted, leaning against the rough cement wall to be as far from Eddie as possible. “You’ve thrown in with Everett Knowland, yeah? Was it you steered him into his new line of work?”

“New line of work?” Eddie was all big blue eyes and creamy skin. “First I’ve ‘eard of it. Since I got out of Wormwood Scrubs—“ He gave a little shudder, lowering his eyes until his eyelashes brushed gently against his cheeks. Peering out from underneath, clearly to judge the effect, he must have seen that the coquettishness wasn’t working on the three men. He pouted. “I’ve been on the straight and narrow, guv, all the way. No illegal activities for this one.”

“Really difficult to believe, Edmund,” Bodie said with a derisive snort. 

“I don’t respond to that name,” Eddie sneered in his direction. 

“Give us some facts or you’re right back in Wormwood,” Bodie continued. “And I’m sure someone with your looks had a smashing time interacting with the other prisoners.”

Eddie’s eyes flashed cold blue flame for half a second. “Ev Knowland is a man of great power and influence. He’s got a brace of solicitors on retainer for times like this. I’ll be released pronto.” He beamed at Doyle. “At least I was able to spend time with you.”

Would have preferred the loathing, Doyle reflected privately. It felt far more honest. 

“I’ve got few secrets really,” Eddie minced.

“I’ll bet you do,” Cougan said half under his breath.

“Does he have to be here now that I’ve got _you_?” Eddie asked.

“Guess not,” Doyle sighed. It was going to be a long evening. At least The Tea Shoppe had served better fare than he’d expected. The pasty filled with swede, potato and peas, topped with spicy mustard, had been quite satisfying. “You’re relieved, as long as you fetch us three cups of tea.”

Cougan glanced between Doyle and Eddie as if about to refuse, but he nodded curtly and rapped on the door for Murphy to let him out.

“I’d love some biscuits, if you’re offering!” Eddie called. “It’s perishing hot in here.”

“It’s the same outside. You’ll get tea only if you give use useable information,” Doyle said. “So, if you’re not working with Knowland, what’s your connection?”

“My boyfriend.” Eddie shrugged delicately, drumming on the arms of the chair with be-ringed fingers. “We’ve been together some months. I do know he’s involved with—oh, items that might’ve dropped off the back of a lorry, you know. But it’s rarely illegal, just getting around those pesky licensing laws, selling a bit of vodka from beyond the Iron Curtain, that sort of thing.” He nodded, assured of his own interpretation of theft. “Private enterprise.”

“How’d he get the vodka?” Bodie asked.

“Haven’t a clue, ducks.” Eddie smiled at Doyle as if he’d been the one who asked the question. “Ev’s been good to me. I couldn’t get gainful employment after the Scrubs, so I had to depend…” He affected a bad American Southern accent, “on the kindness of strangers. Like our dear Blanche Dubois, which is such a glorious name, isn’t it?”

“What about the—“ Doyle paused dramatically, since that appealed to Eddie, “the Columbian connection?” He was fishing, but got a nibble first thing.

“We’ve been planning to emigrate!” Eddie crowed. “Ev and I, it’s all arranged. Passports, visas, the works.”

“Get ‘em out of our hair,” Bodie said sotto voce.

“What’s Columbia got that London doesn’t?” Doyle leaned forward. “Cocaine?”

Eddie pursed his lips but didn’t immediately respond.

“Who’ve you been corresponding with in Latin America, Eddie?” Doyle continued. “Some drugs cartel mogul?”

“He’s not involved with drug cartels,” Eddie said with an elaborate sigh. “Nothing sordid or underhanded. It’s horse racing!”

 _Now they were getting somewhere._ Doyle kept his expression bland even as his heartbeat sped up.

“There is a racetrack in Columbia, but the better known courses are in Argentina and Brazil,” Eddie said, clearly warming to his subject. “Moi, I was a bit leery of actually buying and selling such great beasts—they’re beautiful in the abstract of course, but up close. Huge!” His hands and fingers spread as if he would have made a grand gesture, but couldn’t due to the handcuffs. His opalescent nail varnish gleamed in the overhead lights.

“So, you’re not involved with all this,” Bodie scoffed. “Yet you know all about Knowland buying horses…”

“You can’t manoeuvre me into revealing what should be kept secret.” Eddie laughed, flipping his hair so it slipped over his shoulder. “Our emigration is common knowledge, as is Ev’s interest in the sport of kings. There’s nothing else.”

“What about Syah and Faerie Lights?” Doyle asked.

Eddie’s façade slipped subtly for a moment, but he smiled tightly. “And who are they when they’re at ‘ome?”

“Horses, luv,” Doyle said fast and low. “We want to know how your lad Ev got them from a Saudi Arabian Prince called Abdullah Makki?”

“Other’n you, don’t know any princes.” Eddie pushed out his foot, almost touching Doyle’s boot.

Not willing to let Eddie see how much the physical contact repulsed him, Doyle didn’t move. “Does Knowland?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Eddie said, all pretence of flirting gone. “Not privy to all his affairs.”

“And yet he’s your boyfriend.” Bodie laughed. “Guess the bloom is off the rose, eh?”

There was a knock at the door and Cougan slipped in with three cups of tea on a tray. “No biscuits but there were some crisps,” he announced.

“I’ll have them.” Bodie took the tray. “Where’re the crisps?”

“In me pocket.” Cougan pulled out a very squashed bag of Smith’s salt and vinegar. 

“You’ve crushed them all!” Bodie shook the bag woefully.

“Still quite edible,” Eddie called out.

“You’ll ruin your girlish figure,” Cougan said dismissively, ducking through the door.

“He’s a loathsome creature. I fancy pithing him like a frog. Should tell Ev how I’ve been treated.” Eddie’s feminine demeanour dropped again, his eyes as flat and evil as a snake’s. He watched Bodie set the tea tray down on a small table as if hoping the boiling liquid would spill down Bodie’s front, scalding him.

“D’you want the tea? Wouldn’t want to infringe on your civil liberties,” Doyle snapped, irritated. So far, there was little to be gained from Eddie beyond acknowledgement of the horses. He was tired, his eyes were gritty and he wanted to lie in bed with Bodie. 

“Can’t drink it like this, can I?” Eddie reverted to coquette, batting his eyes. 

“Then you’ll give us something substantial before you’re sent to your cell.” Bodie raised his eyebrow in a challenge, sipping from his own cuppa. 

“I know a man’s name,” Eddie admitted, giggling with a high, nasal titter. “Of course, I know a lot of men’s names, but this one in particular.” He waggled his right hand. “One hand free to claim me cup?” 

“I’ll hold, you drink,” Doyle offered reluctantly. He tipped the cup of tea against Eddie’s lip, letting him have a few swallows.

Finished, Eddie tilted his head, eyes heavy lidded and sensual, his tongue flicking out to lap up a drop from his lower lip. He smiled languidly, dark desires swirling around him. “The cuffs are a turn-on, aren’t they, luvvy? Wot we could do with our roles reversed.”

Doyle bared his teeth, fighting conflicting urges to smack him in the face and recoil. He almost spilled the tea when Bodie clasped his wrist, exactly over the metal coils of his bracelet. The three of them were so close, Doyle could feel Eddie’s breath against his knuckles.

“I’ll take that,” Bodie said abruptly, holding Doyle in place a moment longer than necessary. He filched the cup, glaring at Eddie. 

The prisoner looked on with a knowing smirk that renewed Doyle’s need to bash his head in. Bodie’s show of dominance had tamped down his exasperation, but added a whole different level of annoyance. Doyle plastered what was hopefully a pleasant expression on his face. 

“What name, Eddie?” 

“Ignacio Bautista,” Eddie replied, low and sultry, clearly still trying to work his wiles on Doyle. 

“A Columbian?” Doyle asked without removing Eddie’s foot from his leg as it caressed his ankle. “He sell drugs?”

“I wouldn’t know.” Eddie shrugged elaborately. “Just that we were to stay in his villa outside of Bogota. Guess I’ll have to change my travelling dates.”

“Does he sell drugs?” Bodie repeated aggressively, pushing Doyle away to get into Eddie’s face. 

Surprised, Doyle almost protested his partner’s roughness and then stopped himself, watching the interplay between the two of them. The aggression fed Eddie’s fire. He was breathing fast, mouth parted in a small O. Doyle had brought this on himself with his reluctance to engage in Eddie’s fantasies. On any other day, he’d be in there swinging a few punches, full of piss and vinegar, the stroppy one who got results out of the prisoner.

Was he capitulating because Bodie was his master? Or intimidated by Eddie’s over-the-top sexuality because he always had to sublimate his own? The frustration, not to mention the self-castigation, roiled in his belly. 

Eddie’s chest heaved, his blue eyes wide and guileless. “Honestly, soldier, I don’t know!” He flicked a glance at Doyle as if judging how his performance was going over. 

“You were a pimp, certainly knew people who used drugs but you wouldn’t recognise a line of coke if it was on the glass table in front of you?” Bodie scoffed, crossing his arms.

“If you put it that way.” Eddie shrugged one shoulder, the narrow straps of his lavender top falling down over his bicep. “I’ve seen…coke at ‘is place in London, but no clue where he acquired the stuff.”

Bautista had a home in London. Doyle filed that information away for a later time. They’d need to compile a dossier on the man, if CI5 didn’t already have one. He caught Bodie’s quick look in his direction. They were both thinking the same thing.

“You didn’t partake in his generosity?” Bodie asked, sounding genuinely curious. “A man offers you and your boyfriend high grade cocaine from his home country and you sniff at it?”

“Forced puns aren’t at all funny,” Eddie said archly. “I’ve never used illegal substances—trying to keep my body pure, you know.”

“Because you’re so noble,” Doyle put in finally. “A man who prostituted teenage girls and produced underage sex films.”

“All behind me, sweet thing. In the past.” Eddie yawned as if bored. “As I expect that Ev’s solicitor will be along soon, I can tell you that Bautista’s rolling in cash, and ‘e loves his horses.”

“So you were planning on selling Syah and Faerie Lights to this Bautista?” Doyle asked.

“We were taking the horses to Columbia, for racing, nuffing more!” Eddie insisted. He wiggled both hands in the cuffs with a roll of his eyes. “Really is a waste of perfectly good handcuffs if you’re not going to ravage me, you know.”

“We’re done,” Bodie snapped, jerking his head to the door.

Doyle followed, feeling like a pup with his tail between his legs. And he didn’t like it at all.

 

~*~

Bodie waited until they were in the lift, but he was steaming. What was Doyle playing at? He could feel the aggro coming off his partner in waves. “You lost your edge, Raymond?” he demanded when the rickety contraption lurched upward.

“P’raps I don’t appreciate a Dom appearing in the midst of an inquiry,” Doyle snapped, ass hard up against the back of the lift as if protecting himself from attack. 

“Wouldn’t have had to if you’d hadn’t been doing bugger-all,” Bodie retorted.

Doyle glared at him, jaw clenched and eyes burning. “What about the others brought in with him?” he asked abruptly. “Where’ve they been kept?”

“Good question.” Bodie allowed Doyle to change the subject, knowing they would talk about whatever it was bothering him eventually. Doyle had to ruminate on a problem, internalising it and stewing over his decisions until they burst out of him—usually late nights after he’d had a few pints of beer. “We’ll have to ask our  
Murphy.”

“I’m not going back down now that we’re above ground,” Doyle said dismissively as the lift thumped in anticipation of arriving at level two. “What exactly was the street value of the cocaine? Were there any other drugs found? Is Knowland importing every sort of drug or is he being selective?”

“And why did he move from stolen goods to such a dangerous—“ Bodie started.

“But lucrative,” Doyle added, all signs of his earlier temper gone. He stepped out of the lift when the door opened.

“Definitely lucrative endeavour,” Bodie concluded, thinking. He hated drugs cases—the dealers and pushers were vile, the addicts, for the most part, damaged and pitiful. “You knew Ponce Eddie when you were a copper—he wasn’t running with Knowland then. You think the two of them getting together was what changed Knowland’s business?”

“Eddie’s always been on the periphery of the drugs scene,” Doyle agreed. “Despite his wilted flower performance. He was low level, though—a small time pimp who beat up his girls and kept them high so they were dependent on ‘im. I don’t know of him selling previously—“

“He’s an odd git.” Bodie shook his head, watching Doyle stride toward their office. He’d only met Eddie once before, on the street when they were in need of a grass with some information. He’d provided, running one long fingered hand up and down Doyle’s jacket sleeve the entire time. Bodie knew for a fact that Doyle had taken the jacket to the cleaner the same day. “I almost can’t wrap my head ‘round someone looks like him beating up on girls—“

Doyle turned suddenly as if about to contradict, but Bodie held both hands up in supplication. “Oi, don’t lit into me, sunshine.” He wasn’t quite sure what he meant to say but the rueful smile on Doyle’s face, his chipped tooth peeking out from under his lip was enough to make Bodie want to chuck it all in and drag Doyle back to his flat for snogging. 

“That git sets my teeth on edge,” Doyle said fiercely, snatching up a file folder from his desk. “That pretty smirk like he’s privy to all me secrets.”

“Sods implying all manner of lechery don’t usually get your goat like that,” Bodie commented as blandly as possible. He quite enjoyed winding Doyle up, but that was his prerogative, not Eddie “don’t call me Edmund” Pickup’s. 

“It vexes me—“ Doyle sat down, flipping open the file without looking at it, “that someone like him is dominant and, if I submit to your dominance—“ His face twisted into a lurid grimace, glancing at the door. 

Bodie closed it swiftly. 

“I cannot abide the remote possibility that I might…be compelled to kneel to him.” He trailed off in a whisper, self-guilt drooping his shoulders. 

“Never,” Bodie assured.

“How do you know?” Doyle relaxed incrementally, but he was stiff, tense.

“Submission isn’t in your nature, you great idiot. You do it for me, and me only.” Bodie touched Doyle’s arm, running his palm up to the shoulder and kneading gently. “I can sense it when you’re yielding to me—something clicks inside you, but it’s private.” He leaned down, kissing the damaged cheekbone.

Wordlessly, Doyle turned into him, seeking his mouth, seeking shelter. Bodie could feel Doyle’s need to surrender, which gave him a thrill of joy, even if this was not at all the right time play. Immediately, he realised that Doyle sensed exactly the same thing, tucking his submission back into hiding for now. 

A noise outside the door alerted them to exactly why they should not indulge in that sort of thing. 

Doyle inhaled sharply, brushing the back of his fingers across his forehead as if wiping away all vestiges of emotion. “I’ll write up a quick summary of the inquiry with Pon—Eddie—uh?”

“Pickup,” Bodie supplied, watching his partner. Same old, same old, pretend that there weren’t barriers between them and the world.

There was an abbreviated knock and Cowley strode in. Bodie got the distinct impression that he’d been lurking in the passageway: the sound they’d heard moments before. What had Cowley been expecting to find? Did he know about their relationship?

“Sir!” Bodie responded brightly, pretending the thought of Cowley listening in on their cuddling didn’t disturb him. “We’re curious to know what’s become of the other men brought in with Eddie?”

Cowley’s pale blue gaze swept between the two of them as if sussing out their intent. “Questioned by Murphy and Cougan earlier, before you arrived, and remanded over to the Met,” he explained shortly, shoving a sheath of papers into Bodie’s hands. “Those men supplied the addresses for two other warehouses. Tonnes of marijuana and cocaine, much of it already processed into the rock referred to as crack.”

“Nasty stuff,” Doyle said sourly, writing out his report in longhand.

“The Chief Inspector of the drugs squad was quite impressed,” Cowley went on. “Unexpectedly, we may have cut supply to the street level by a significant degree. The results of this may reveal themselves in the next few days as suppliers have less product to sell and their clients are pushed to the limit.”

“Good and bad news.” Bodie frowned, considering the implications. Nature abhorred a vacuum. Despite the fact that they could celebrate fewer illegal substances on the streets of London, he didn’t relish the idea that some people desperate for drugs would suffer. At least there might be fewer new addicts in the coming week.

“Were you able to suss out the names of people connected to Knowland?” Cowley asked, perching on the edge of Doyle’s desk. “The Met have been caught unawares that he’d delved so heavily into the drugs market. D.I. Mondeville explained that a mid-level supplier died in February, leaving the way clear for new entrepreneurs, and he’d feared that our old mate Belmonti was cornering that share.”

“Apparently not.” Doyle leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen on his lower lip. “Although, Knowland may have taken up the slack as a rival to Belmonti. Eddie twigged us onto a bloke in Columbia—“

“Where he claims he and Knowland are emigrating as a married couple,” Bodie added with a grin.

“Good Lord,” Cowley murmured, clearly disturbed. “What is this Columbian called?”

“Ignacio Bautista,” Doyle put in. “And no, we haven’t yet had time to dig into his bio, got no pertinent facts about him.”

“No matter. I’ve actually heard of him—because he races horses.”

“I didn’t know you were such a fan of racing,” Bodie commented, impressed.

“I’d always had a keen eye for equine musculature and symmetry,” Cowley said, sounding almost defensive, “but since meeting Sid Halley, I’ve broadened my appreciation of the sport.”

“You mean you liked watching the runners on telly, but jockeys seemed a bit dim,” Doyle said astutely, a bemused gleam in his eye. “Belatedly, you’ve come to realise that jockeys have a brain—and there’s a packet to be made betting on the right nag?”

Cowley pointed his finger at Doyle, pursing his lips. Generally considered his favourite, Bodie was surprised that their boss allowed the teasing go by without a reprimand. 

“Bautista fancies himself a promoter,” Cowley said hastily, crossing his arms over his waistcoat. He stood looking down at what Doyle had been writing. “He’s been attempting to get backing from the Jockey Club and other racing associations in the UK to increase the sport in South America. There’ve been several articles in the Sporting News recently on his scheme.” He walked to the office door. “I think I still have a copy from last week, unless the cleaner’s come by to empty the bins already.”

Bodie glanced down into the trash. It was filled to overflowing with all manner of things including his Swiss Roll wrappers from two days before and the oily newspaper from the fish and chips he and Ray had shared yesterday. “I can say without hesitation that the cleaner’s not been by.”

“Good.” Cowley nodded and went briskly into the hall.

“A keen appreciation for equine musculature…?” Doyle snorted, his sides shaking from laughter he must have been holding in for several minutes.

“You shut it,” Bodie warned, chuckling. “We’d best be home once he’s found that article. Have you finished that infernal write-up?” He fiendishly sank his fingers into Doyle’s plush curls.

“Unless you fancy proof-reading?” Doyle flipped the paper at him. 

~*~

Sid Halley liked the country life. He liked it with every fibre of his being. The cockerel crowing before the sun came up—although, truth be told, he did wish sunrise were a mite later than 4:45. There were days, like today, where he’d been tempted to turn over, curl up against Chico and sleep for another hour. But he hadn’t. Chico had barely stirred when Sid rolled out of bed and flipped the duvet up over his partner. Listening to the rain beating a tattoo on the roof; Sid had slotted his prosthesis onto his stump, shoved his feet into wellies, put on a hat and slogged out into the wet to feed the horses. 

Seemed like a proper trainer now that he had three horses in the stable. Plus, there was enough room for four more animals in the building. He’d got a cow, simply for the simple pleasure of having warm, fresh, full cream milk in his tea—a real treat for someone who’d deprived himself of high calorie foods during his riding career. 

Matilde was lowing as Sid sloshed across the yard to the barn. What a difference a day made. It was as miserable a morning as it had been glorious yesterday. He surveyed the grey, sodden pasture beyond the buildings, content in the knowledge that he owned everything he could see standing there. The house was nearly one hundred years old and solid in the way only a stone cottage could be. There were two out buildings: the barn and a garage, although since he and Chico owned two cars, a horse box and a motorcycle, one or other of their vehicles always ended up parked in the drive beside the house.

Sid spread his plastic fingers and thumb apart to latch onto the bucket for milk, but as happened of late, there was considerable lag between his thought and the actual movement. Dr Featherstone was correct, the mechanical bits of his prosthesis simply weren’t performing as well as in the past. It was definitely time to upgrade.

He perched on the milking stool, squeezing Matilde’s teats with his right hand. Early days, he’d tried with his left, but she’d complained and shied away. There was no finesse in the fake fingers, nor sensitivity. One handed milking, like everything else he had to do with only his right, was slower and more cumbersome, but he could get the job done.

All three horses had their heads out of their stalls, watching his progress with the cow. Faerie Lights neighed insistently, excited by the activity. Obviously, in her mind, if Matilde was getting attention, then she was next for feeding. Sid was encouraged by the easy way Faerie Lights had settled into the stall. He’d been worried there would be far more fanfare and temperament.

Syah snuffled, butting his muzzle against Faerie’s. They were in adjoining stalls, close enough to touch, which seemed the only sensible way to stable them. Syah kept her calm and she would follow him anywhere.

Zarathustra, across the aisle, regarded them with the same haughty reserve he’d had since they’d arrived the night before. Accustomed to being an only for six months, Zara was reserving his opinion of the newcomers until he got to know them better. He stomped his hoof, nickering as if to tell Sid to hurry up.

_Meow_

Sid chuckled, glancing over his shoulder without turning. Another voice heard from. The all black feral cat had been hanging around the barn for a month or so, coming closer every day. Sid had started leaving a cup of milk and Chico had bought a bag of kibble, so now her ribs didn’t stand out like barrel staves. 

He patted the patient cow on her flank, scooped out a portion of milk for the cat and went about the rest of his morning duties. It was pleasant breathing in the scents of fresh hay, wet earth and warm animals. 

When all three horses and the cow were munching their grain, and the cat—needed to think up a name for her—was licking her paws just inside the barn door, Sid leaned against the wall of his barn, quite content. This was the life. Not something he’d ever expected, growing up the bastard child of a single mother. Small and fine boned, he’d apprenticed as a stable boy and then jockey before he was sixteen years old, earning his keep quickly. Although he’d never finished his O levels, he had a keen mind for figures and had developed an interest in finance, particularly stocks and bonds. By the time he was a successful jockey, he’d been even more successful on the stock exchange, ensuring that he’d never have to worry about money ever again. Yet, his disastrous marriage to ex-wife Jenny and subsequent riding accident had derailed his life and his career. Hadn’t mattered that he had money to spare—he’d been shell-shocked and depressed for months. It had taken his ex-father-in- law’s kick in the pants to jolt him into interest in investigation, and Chico’s friendship to steer Sid Halley into a whole new life. He was happy. Not for the first time ever, but it was the longest period of happiness he’d ever had. 

Felt good.

The cottage was outside of Roxbye, one of those picturesque blink and you’d miss it villages that dotted England. Yet, Lambourn, home of the famous National Hunt race horse training centre was not thirty minutes down the M4 Motorway and Oxfordshire was close by as well. Chico, however, thought they were living in outer Mongolia.

It came down to the fact that Sid felt safe in this environ, a harking back to his first work place –and Chico did not. Sid had hoped that Chico would acclimatise to the country, especially because there was an actual dojo in Roxbye. Not to mention a well known one in Oxford, but Chico craved the London alleys and closes he’d grown up in. 

A few more barn chores followed. Mucking out stalls was never pleasant but there was a satisfying sense of completion once finished. The rain was just slacking off to an intermittent drizzle when he waded back to the cottage and removed his boots. He could smell toast in the kitchen. 

“Morning,” Chico said cheerfully, his blond hair still wet from a shower. The curls were unfurling here and there, especially around his ears, making him appear even younger than usual. “You do look the proper country squire with mud in your teeth n’ covered in horse hair.”

“Been feeding your moggy.”

“That Ninja’s a smart lass.” He stuffed a slice of toast with marmalade into his mouth, pouring tea into a thermos.

“You’ve named her, have you?” Seeing Chico always improved Sid’s mood. When he was already happy, Chico still somehow managed to bring a grin to Sid’s face.

“Seemed the obvious choice.” Chico shrugged amiably.

 _It did indeed._ “Suits her. Where’re you off to?”

“Judo, karate. Need more practice before I qualify for my fourth degree black belt on Saturday.” Chico stuffed the thermos into his rucksack, casting around the kitchen for a pair of motorcycle boots. Still crunching the last of the toast, he sat down to pull the boots on over his leather biking gear. “How’re Faerie and Syah faring?”

Sid would have done anything to strip those leathers off him and chase Chico back to bed. Instead, he removed two slices of bread from the open packet on the counter and slid them into the waiting toaster. “Settled in well.”

“Nicholas Shanks rang and left a message for you whilst I was in the shower.” Chico waved a finger at the answer phone. “He’ll come round at ‘alf past eight to pry off their shoes.”

“Brilliant, then I know how my morning will go.” Sid fixed himself a cup of tea. He’d got the mixture of cream and tea exactly right when the bread popped up. 

“You fancy a pint once the Crown opens?” Chico asked, jamming a crash helmet over his drying hair. 

“Meet you there at half past eleven. You’ve got money?” 

“Nah, thought you’d be paying.” Chico grinned impishly and dashed out.

Sid laughed, clamping his false hand around the hot cup. There were some positive aspects about plastic dabs. Never burned his fingers. He glanced at the clock over the cooker. Not quite eight. He had a few more chores he could finish before the farrier came. A country farmer’s work was never done.

~*~

Faerie Lights didn’t even wait until Shanks was in the barn. It was as if she knew from the sound of his van that something was in store. She was snorting, nostrils flaring, and moving restlessly in the stall when Halley and Shanks opened the barn door. 

The sun had finally broken through the clouds, but it was a weak beam without much warmth. Sid put a suspicious Zara into the paddock so that Shanks would only have to contend with the two new horses. Syah, living up to his calm, elegant demeanour, nickered softly to his mate, watching Shanks break out his equipment with large, dark eyes.

“Only known him less than twenty-four hours, but I can already see, there’s not a mean bone in his body,” Sid said, rubbing Syah affectionately between the ears. What would happen to the two horses once CI5 sorted out how they’d come to be in rural England? Had they been stolen from Prince Abdullah Makki? Had he sold them, or was he somehow involved in what might be a smuggling racket? Sid reminded himself to call Makki later. “And whatever you do, don’t click your fingers around her highness, there. She goes mental.”

“Noted.” Shanks visually assessed the two horses in their stalls for a moment. He was a cautious man with pale blue eyes and a bald head with a narrow growth of hair all the way around the back similar to a monk’s tonsure. “Can you hold Faerie Lights? I’ll remove her shoes first, in case she protests. I’m afraid, since this was an emergency job, that I can’t re-shoe either of them t’day, but I can come tomorrow.” He lay out his shoe puller and clinch cutter on a hoof stand. “The Hunt Centre has me booked to shoe a great number of their horses this morning.”

“I really appreciate you coming out at short notice,” Sid said sincerely. “These horses were quite possibly stolen—it’s a criminal investigation, but early days so we have few answers and lots of questions.” He clipped a lead to Faerie and opened the stall door. She squealed in agitation, baring her teeth and stomping both back feet. “Hup, hup,” Sid murmured softly, waiting out her burst of temper. 

It took a few minutes, and some reassurances from Syah, before Faerie allowed Shanks near her feet. Then, quite surprisingly, she submitted to the removal of her shoes without much fuss.

“All bluster, aren’t you?” Shanks patted her on the rump. Faerie practically leapt into the stall again, all but prancing on her unshod hooves.

Syah came out on his own once the stall door was open, examining the farrier with intelligent friendliness. Sid had him walk up and down the barn aisle to illustrate how the gorgeous black horse was favouring his right foreleg.

“Right shoe is cracked, eh?” Shanks observed, touching Syah lightly on the right leg. “We’ll have that off soon enough. Needs the hoof shaved, I’ll warrant, as well.” He lifted the horse’s leg up between his knees, examining the shoe further. “And he’s got a frog pad, must be soft footed.”

Interested, Sid bent to see what he was referring to. He hadn’t paid much attention earlier in the morning when he’d cleaned Syah’s hooves. There was a thick absorbent pad under the metal shoe which didn’t look as worn as he’d first assumed because it was cracked. “How long ago d’you think that was put on?”

Syah stood stock still, trusting in his care. He was clearly used to having his shoes worked on. Behind them, Faerie moved around her stall, neighing softly to her mate.

“Not that long ago, possibly in the last month?” Shanks worked the nails out of the metal horseshoe and picked up his shoe puller to pry the shoe away from the hoof. “I suspect this steel wasn’t tempered well and it—“ He paused as the shoe came off, revealing the thick pad underneath. “It cracked when Syah walked on it.” With a quick tap of his soft hammer, he loosened the frog pad, frowning. “There’s something trapped—could be why he’s gone lame—“ 

Sid gasped when Shanks peeled off the rubber liner. A glitter of bright green gems tumbled out of a small pocket between the pad and Syah’s hoof onto the wooden floor.

“What the bloody--?” Shanks jerked, dropping Syah’s leg in surprise.

The horse stumbled but remained standing, whinnying in annoyance and fear. Not wanting to startle Syah, Sid held up a gentling hand, carefully making the horse take two steps back. Scattered across the barn floor were five emeralds.

“Where did those come from?” Shanks asked as if he hadn’t seen the evidence with his own eyes. 

Agitated with the rising tension in the room, Faerie squealed. Syah turned, neighing urgently at her.

“Good question.” Sid knelt, balancing himself with his prosthesis to scoop up the tiny gems. “This could be the reason the horses were brought over from where ever the thief got them.”

“Smuggling gems in a horse’s shoe?” Shanks elaborated. “Never heard of such a thing.”

 _And the knowledge could be dangerous for both of us,_ Sid realised. 

“These horses are involved in a criminal investigation that just became far more complicated,” Sid explained. “Don’t speak of this to anyone, please.”

“O’ course not.” Shanks shook his head, still spooked. “Take the other shoes off quick as a wink and be on my way, shall I? New shoes in a day or so.”

“Eminently sensible,” Sid agreed, closing his fingers around the jewels. Where to put them? Some place as unexpected as a horse shoe. At least until he could call Bodie and Doyle, and hand the emeralds over to them. The other question was why were the gems there? Had Prince Makki hidden them as payment, a bribe, a cache for some offshore bank account? Or if the horses had been stolen, who else might have put them there?

He watched Shanks efficiently pry the other three shoes off Syah. The other man barely said a word. When he was finished, he touched a finger to his forehead and left with all alacrity, his tools trundled into his carryall with none of his usual meticulousness.

Sid found himself alone, the emeralds still clutched in his hand. He examined the jewels critically. While he knew nothing about emeralds, his ex-wife Jenny had demanded Tiffany’s and Cartier at every birthday. Sid recognised that these were the real thing. The inner glow of the green gems was almost mesmerising, even in the fairly dim light of the barn. Transferring them to his pocket for a moment, he looked up at the patient black horse who’d carried the stones from another country. 

“Well, Syah, what have you to say for yourself?” he asked. 

Syah tossed his head as if boasting about his accomplishment. Still worried about having the gems in his barn, Sid put Syah and Faerie into the paddock with Zara. Let them all make friends. He had other matters to contend with.

Casting an eye past Matilde, the empty stalls and the tack room, Sid nodded when he came to a shelf containing many of the trophies and medals Chico had won in judo and karate competitions. Several of them featured a golden figure executing an impressive kick, his standing leg attached to a long narrow pedestal. 

Sid knew that the figure unscrewed from the pedestal. Chico sometimes reused the trophies for his students by screwing a different ornament onto the top and changing the winner’s name. 

Selecting one at random, Sid clamped the stiff fingers of his false hand down on the golden figure’s tiny head and unscrewed the base. He dropped the emeralds into the pedestal and re-secured the metal Judo expert on the top. The trophy bore the legend _First prize, Chico Barnes, 1979._ Each of the first prize awards were in yearly order, starting from 1975, when Chico had been all of sixteen. He must have been a scrappy little bugger then, especially since Chico once told Sid he hadn’t grown to his full height of 5’6’’ until he was nineteen.

Not quite sure why he did so, Sid shoved the trophy for 1980 over to the left and put 1979 in its place. The only other person in the world who would ever notice would be Chico. 

He had to contact CI5 at once. Unlike the barn near Glastonbury where they’d found the horses, Sid’s did not have a telephone. He checked on the animals. All three were standing quietly—equine détente. Zara had staked out the far left corner of the paddock with Syah and Faerie on the right. Sid had no doubt that Faerie could raise quite a ruckus if provoked, and resolved not to be gone long.

Strolling out of the barn, he heard a vehicle of some kind pull into the drive. It was definitely not the sound of Chico’s motorbike returning. Who would be coming here? Bodie and Doyle? That would be a welcome coincidence.

He couldn’t see the front of the house from this angle, but remained cautious. Walking around the cottage, he saw a lorry towing a two horse box in the back—not a surprise in this area--but he didn’t recognise the driver nor the passenger. The former was a thick waisted man with a single eyebrow hanging low over both eyes, wearing a flat cap. The other was taller, by quite a bit, which meant he would tower over Sid. He had brown eyes, brown hair and the shoulder muscle of a cricket batter.

“Can I help you?” Sid asked as casually as possible.

“We’re here for the horse,” the thick waisted man rasped in a heavy Northern accent.

“Which horse?” Alarm bells were sounding in his head, but he stayed calm. No use jumping to conclusions before he had specific reason. Why did they only want one?

“’Im that you took from the farm last night,” the man continued, gesturing behind him as if Glastonbury were just down the lane. 

“We’re meant to deliver a horse,” the taller bloke said, expecting to be obeyed promptly.

“Do you have paperwork? Official forms?” Sid persisted. He had no doubt that these were not CI5 agents. How did he work this? He was the only one on the property, and his nearest neighbours were miles away. 

Flat Cap glanced at his mate with a twist of his mouth. “Ain’t got no papers, have we, Alf?”

“Shut it!” Alf snarled, clearly the brains of the operation. He advanced on Sid, using his height to push him backward toward the barn. “Listen, little man, I knows you think you’re summat special coz you once rode for th’queen, but that don’t make no never mind to us. We want the horse, in our van, quick like.”

Behind him, Sid could hear Faerie squeal in outrage; Zara must have come too near. These two knew who he was. Far worse, they knew where he’d got Syah and Faerie. This did not bode well. He lunged to his left, swinging his heavy prosthesis. In a pinch, it worked brilliantly as a blunt object. 

Alf was faster. He ducked, slugging Sid with a swift right. Sid dropped heavily into a puddle of rain water, his head ringing. Damn, what a time for Chico to be out when he could be using those judo tricks to maximum effect. Sid had learned a few of the more essential judo and karate moves over the years but as he contemplated coming up kicking, he stared straight into the barrel of a Luger Flat Cap was holding.

“Now, I don’ want to have to say this twice.” Alf stomped heavily on Sid’s flesh and bone hand lying in the mud. Something crunched and shifted, possibly bone. “You’ll be up and have the great beast in the van without delay.”

“I say we just kill ‘im.” Flat Cap giggled, shoving the gun practically into Sid’s nostril. “Save us the aggro.”

“He’s th’one knows horses,” Alf answered, hauling Sid onto his feet with a single heave.

Swaying drunkenly, Sid barely managed to keep his stomach contents intact. His head throbbed and his right hand ached abysmally. He’d felt the same after any number of falls on the race course. Didn’t do to dwell. However, now would be a good time for Chico to come roaring up on his bike. 

In equal measure, he was glad Chico wasn’t here to be bashed about and potentially badly injured. Because that was Chico; jump first, ask questions after.

Sid pushed his false hand against the barn for balance and found that the dowsing hadn’t done good things to the already dicky prosthesis batteries. His plastic fingers didn’t move, forefinger stiffly pointing, the others pinched together as if trying to pick up a pencil. _Damn._

“On with it.” Alf poked his shoulder. “We’re off schedule. Meant to pick up the horse last night.” He prodded Sid over to the barn and attached paddock.

Another clue—these men must have followed him and Chico from Glastonbury. Did they know about the emeralds, or were they simply delivery thugs working for—who had Bodie and Doyle said? Everett Knowland, a fence and smuggler. Sid wished he’d done a little research the night before, but the drive combined with settling in the new horses had worn him out.

“The black one’s him, innit?” Flat Cap stood at the fence, gazing at the herd of three. 

“Watch him close, id’jit,” Alf said dismissively, shoving Sid in the other man’s direction. “’Alley’s a wily lad, ‘eard of him, I have. We’re to take the black horse.”

Obediently, Flat Cap trained his Lugar on Sid, looking down at him as if Sid were nothing more than a bug he’d been asked to squash. “Cheers.” 

Bracing his now useless prosthesis on the top bar of the fence, Sid didn’t say a word as Alf wrested open the gate and walked boldly toward the three animals. Apparently, they’d banded together as a united front against an intruder. Zara whinnied an alarm, standing his ground, just behind Syah. Faerie stood on her mate’s other side, legs planted as if ready to charge, blowing loudly through her nostrils.

“Oi,” Alf said, reaching for Syah’s halter. “Come, come.” He clicked his fingers once.

Sid didn’t wait for Faerie’s attack. He crouched, striking out at Flat Cap with the side of his right foot just as the white horse reared, screaming her challenge. She charged, knocking Alf to the ground, one hoof glancing off his shoulder. She cleared the fence in a single leap, soaring so close to Sid that he could have jumped on her back if he’d thought to grab a handful of mane. 

Flat cap went arse up in the mud, his eyes wide as the horse seemed to fly right past his face. 

Faerie landed gracefully in a spray of mud, turning abruptly to defend Syrah if she could. 

“She’s a devil!” Alf screamed, He clutched his left arm, all covered in mud and horseshit. “Shoot her, you damned fool!”

“No!” Sid went still, both hands up in submission. “Whatever you do, don’t click your fingers. Or shoot the pistol.” Zarathustra had a dread fear of the sound of gunshot. The last thing they needed was two horses going wild. “Stay calm,” he added to all in hearing vicinity. 

“She nearly broke me arm!” Alf growled, cradling his elbow. “I think I’m bleeding.”

 _So we’re even, you’ve probably broken my fingers,_ Sid thought, holding his right palm to Faerie, directing her attention to him and not the scary men. “Faerie beauty, shush.”

Her white flanks covered in sweat and grime, Faerie pawed the damp ground, breathing heavily. Syah nickered softly, for her ears only, leaning over the top of the fence.

“Hup, hup, Faerie,” Sid whispered, the tips of his fingers millimetres from her halter. If she had a mind to, she could bite them off. Instead, she lowered her nose, the whites of her eyes still showing but putting all her trust in him.

He could hear Alf and Flat cap getting to their feet, muttering angrily.

“Good girl, good girl,” Sid soothed, petting her nose and scratching behind her ears. What had this gained either of them but more bumps and bruises? The usually flexible fingers of his right hand weren’t bending much better than the left ones. He led Faerie over to Syah so they could nuzzle. “They go as a set,” he said wearily to Alf. “Or they don’t go at all.”

“Then you’ll come along, as well,” Alf decided swiftly, dripping with mud. He stripped off his tweedy jacket. There was blood on his grey shirt, and he regarded the stain with fury. “Lookit that. Tie your handkerchief around me arm,” he ordered Flat cap.

“You smell,” Flat Cap muttered. He tucked the pistol in the waistband of his trousers to fish out a dirty square of cotton from a pocket.

The first aid was accomplished quickly. By Sid’s experienced eye, Alf’s injury was minor and the bleeding minimal. He wiped mud off his face, weary, listening to Syah and Faerie breathe. Where were they planning to take him? Was there any way to leave a clue for Chico? What if he leapt on top of Faerie and galloped away? Alf and Flat cap would still have Syah.

“Get the horses into the van and we’re leaving,” Alf shouted irritably. He leaned down to Sid’s level. “And if you gets mouthy or kicks gormless ‘ere in the goolies, you’ll be tossed out on the side of the motorway like a used fag, mind?”

“Yeah,” Sid answered tightly. He had to find a way to gain the upper hand, as it were. What did he have to work with? The plastic fingers didn’t budge when he tried to open the latch on the gate. Swearing under his breath, Sid let his arm hang, the drag on his shoulder punishing. 

“That come off, don’t it?” Flat cap asked.

 _No!_ Schooling his face, Sid didn’t answer, taking Faerie back into the paddock. Even his good fingers protested when he curled them around her halter. “I need lead ropes for the horses, if you want me to get them into the van. They’re in the barn.”

“Let’s see it come off,” Flat Cap insisted, laughing nastily. 

There were only a few people he willingly allowed to see his stump: Chico, his doctor, and assorted staff at the Royal Prosthetic Rehabilitation Centre.

Anticipating a bullet between his ears for his insubordination, Sid ignored the taunting, walking into the dim barn. He reached for the ropes coiled neatly on the hook beside the door, aware that his tormenters were standing just behind. A beam of mid-morning sun shone out from the clouds, suddenly illuminating the entire barn. Green fire flashed from the wooden planks on the floor, exactly where Syah had been shod. Sid’s heart caught in his throat, afterimages sparking on his retina. Another one? Pretending he hadn’t seen the evidence, he turned, holding up the rope. 

“He may be as gormless as a rock most times,” Alf said thoughtfully, crowding Sid and clasping his left upper arm, “but on occasion, he trips over a brilliant idea without a clue. You’ll be as docile as a newborn lamb with only one ‘and, won’t you?”

“I’m going with you—for the horses’ sake, what more do you want?” Sid asked, panic rising in his gorge. He’d never let on, but the notion of removing his hand in front of them, of appearing weak, _crippled_ , was nearly more than he could bear. 

No.

“Don’t let ‘im move,” Alf said to his partner, menace in his voice. He tapped his own injured arm and flexed his shoulders. “While I take care of this lit’le impediment.”

_No._

Sid jerked away only to discover that Flat Cap was far stronger than he appeared, and at roughly eighteen stone, he was double Sid’s weight. He snugged Sid up against his side with one meaty arm and pushed him hard against the wooden wall. There was nowhere to move. 

“How does it go?” Alf asked, his cruel smile revealing his poor dental health. “Just jerk it off like so?” He yanked, almost dislocating Sid’s shoulder. 

Pain shooting up from his elbow to his neck, Sid tried to maintain some semblance of decorum. He wasn’t about to collude in their torture, but if he had to comply, they were doing it on his terms. “Twist,” he ground out, panting. “Gently.” He sent a mental message to his muscles to loosen but it was one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Adrenalin pulsing through his veins made relaxation almost impossible. 

Flat Cap chuckled nastily. “Reminds me of a rubber, don’t it? Coming off me willie.”

“Wanker,” Alf admonished, pulling too hard.

Sid grit his teeth as the tight inner sleeve came loose of his stump. It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation on the best of days; this was like removing a layer of skin. 

“There we are,” Alf crowed, waving the expensive prosthesis like it was a doll’s arm. “Aren’t you the gimpy lad now?” He dropped the metal and plastic assemblage of bio-electric circuitry without a backward glance. “Get those horses in the box, ‘Alley.”

Sid watched it fall, saw what the stiffened finger pointed at, and turned to do as he was told.

~*~

“While you two were sleeping, others were doing your work,” Cowley announced when Bodie and Doyle walked through his office door. He handed Bodie an old issue of Sporting News and Doyle a file folder.

“Ah, ha!” Bodie cried, skimming the article. “Just as you said, sir. Ignacio Bautista is the Rupert Murdoch of Columbia: setting his sights on horse racing, newspaper ownership, as well as television stations and an interest in the new market of mobile telephones.”

“He’ll get nowhere there, those things don’t even have the reception of an r/t,” Doyle scoffed, patting the device in his pocket. “Any mention of his drugs operation?”

“Shoddy journalism, that is,” Bodie said with a gleam in his eye. “We should go up to Roxbye, check on those horses Halley and Barnes are caring for.”

“Aye, but that can wait. Your current assignment, 3.7, cannot.” Cowley pointed the earpiece of his spectacles at Bodie. “You’ve neglected your teeth for too long, Mr Bodie, and missed your dentist appointment yesterday.”

Doyle laughed at Bodie’s outraged expression. “Look like you’re facing an execution, sunshine, instead of havin’ your teeth cleaned.”

“From the dentist’s report, Bodie was supposed to have a cavity filled yesterday—“ Cowley consulted a sheet of paper. “Actually, he’s pleaded assignments for two months without attending to his incisors— Dr Myron has kept a space open in his morning schedule for you.”

“I was bloody well on assignment!” Bodie protested wildly, his belly churning. Of all the luck. He’d thought the dentist would have forgotten after all this time. He never minded the doctor patching him up after a rough obbo, or the constant bumps and bruises from Macklin’s insane exercises, but somehow, a man mucking about in his mouth while he was all but restrained in a chair was maddening. “Remember the stake-out on Fogherty’s home? And undercover…”

Doyle smirked at him which really set Bodie’s teeth on edge. And made the molar on the left side twinge sharply, as it always did when he bit down hard. 

“I am well aware of the rota,” Cowley answered sternly. “March yourself over to Myron’s office now.”

“What am I to do whilst he’s lounging back in a reclining chair?” Doyle asked sweetly, leaning in his usual place against the bookshelves.

Bodie hesitated before leaving, curious to find out if Doyle had an equally humiliating assignment.

“We’re on the hunt for Knowland,” Cowley explained, tapping the folder he’d given Doyle. “Had the lads in research up all night ferreting out his other residences—as well as this Bautista’s—and Knowland’s businesses, but early morning visits to those places resulted in nil. We have to find where he’s holed up and soon.”

Bodie cringed, glancing at Doyle’s stricken expression before leaving. They both realised what Cowley had in mind: a second round with Ponce Eddie. Quite likely that Doyle would be having even less fun than Bodie this morning.

~*~

Doyle had to wait until Edmund Pickup was brought over from the city gaol where he had been held in isolation by order of Cowley. Cooling his heels in the office he shared with Bodie, Doyle went over the results of CI5’s efforts in the last twenty-four hours. It was impressive. Especially because the original intent had been to stop an international liquor trafficking—can’t have the Crown missing out on those liquor taxes. To have inadvertently hauled in tonnes of drugs, along with all the other confiscated goods, was a major boon for CI5. The big question was what did the two horses have to do with any sort of contraband? 

Doyle had heard of smuggling rare animals such as parrots or tiger cubs, but race horses were plentiful in England. If the horses had been stolen from this prince Halley knew, they’d still be recognised by the British Jockey Club due to the tattoos on their lips. So why go to all the trouble of getting them into the country illegally? There must be more to the connection between Knowland and Bautista. 

According to Cowley’s up-to-the-minute reports, there had been an attempt to contact Bautista in Columbia, but he had not been found. Exactly why it was imperative to bring Knowland in for an interview.

He allowed himself a bracing cup of tea before going downstairs to talk to Eddie again. As much as he dreaded another round of innuendo spiced with actual useful information, Doyle had to admit to himself that he was curious about Knowland and Eddie’s relationship. He’d never met Knowland personally, but the pictures they had of the bloke showed a squat, unattractive man with fleshy lips and a bad comb-over. What had brought the two of them together? The appeal of power, money and prestige, no doubt.

Mulling over what he would ask Eddie, Doyle descended to the lower level.

Eddie was far less glamorous after a night in the nick. His long blond hair was pulled back in an untidy plait and he wore government issue overalls. He looked much subdued. Was that because Knowland’s high priced solicitor hadn’t sprung him yet? Or that his “fiancé” hadn’t acknowledged his incarceration?

“Guess Ev didn’t send you a shiv in your breakfast muesli, yeah?” Doyle taunted to get up his nose. 

“You were a much kinder, gentler, sod when you were a copper,” Eddie observed bitterly. “I’ve had a hell of a night and me nail varnish is all chipped.” Once again shackled to a chair, he spread his fingers to display his painted nails.

“’Orrible,” Doyle replied with a heavy Cockney accent. “Yesterday evening, you mentioned attending some sort of drugs soiree at Bautista’s place in London. Recall the address?”

“I take it you didn’t get off with any bed partners, either,” Eddie said, pursing his pink lips suggestively.

“Bautista’s place?” Doyle insisted.

Eddie rolled his eyes, shrugging a thin shoulder. He jerked his cuffed wrist as if reminding himself he was restrained and sighed. “Victoria Road, W8.”

 _Pricey neighbourhood._ “Did you get a house number?”

“Raymond, luv, I may not have partaken of my host’s merchandise but I do like a wee drinkie.” Eddie tittered, playing the feminine giggle for effect. “I was a trifle inebriated, shall we say, and wearing smashing heels, so walking wasn’t for the faint ‘earted.” 

Doyle leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and his ankles to prove he could wait all day.

Eddie glanced up through his eyelashes, clearly aware that Doyle was not falling for the helpless girl act. Moistening his full lower lip with the tip of his tongue, he thought for a moment. “It was cream coloured.”

“They’re all cream coloured on Victoria,” Doyle snapped. He was truly surprised that Eddie had supplied the information with only token stalling. The reminder that he could go back to the Scrubs had sobered him. “Now—we’ve got—“ He paused to recall the places CI5 had located that were allegedly owned by Knowland. “Four addresses for your boyfriend. Three in London, one in Glastonbury and one in Brighton. But he’s not taking our calls.”

“That hovel in Glastonbury ain’t Ev’s,” Eddie said scornfully, examining his nails as if he were expecting the manicurist to arrive momentarily. “It’s mine. Was going to pull the place down, have an architect in, do it up right into a proper little ‘ide-away for two. But when we decided to emigrate, he used it to store the horses.”

“Which were stolen,” Doyle said, neglecting to point out that everything there had been either stolen or illegal.

“They weren’t neither!” Eddie glared at Doyle, his expression quickly softening. “Ev told me he paid good money for those beasts. As a gift for Bautista, if you must know.”

“Why’d he want to get on Bautista’s good side?” Doyle asked. “Trading favours? Drugs for horses.”

“They’re mates. Just a pressie, I expect.” 

“Quite expensive for a pressie.”

“Ain’t you got someone you’d get something nice for?” Eddie gave the innocent question a lewd undertone, his blue eyes sparkling. “That one you was with last night. His eyes were never far from your arse, let me tell you. A bit of how’s your father, I reckon?” 

_He’d have to scold Bodie next chance he got._ If Eddie could see they had a relationship going on, what did their close associates notice? “Where do the drugs we found in Knowland’s warehouses come from? Does he manufacture them himself?”

“Ev make drugs, that’s a laugh.” Ponce Eddie chortled with delight. “Nah, if you must know, he was –“ He stopped with a frown. “I want—what’d you call it—to trade favours. If I tells you something, I gets something out of it.”

“Fair.” Doyle considered his options. So far, they really didn’t have Eddie on much except for being in a building with stolen property and drugs. He’d had no drugs on his person and had not tested positive for narcotics or any other illegal substance. For that matter, neither had the three other men with him, whom Cougan had interviewed. Jonny Barley, Dan O’Shaunessy and Kip Voorhees were low lifes with prior arrests and had past association with Knowland, but really nothing concrete to charge them with beyond the obvious. Doyle’d have to discuss with Cowley what they could offer Eddie in exchange. How likely was Eddie to be telling the truth? If they let him walk, would he go right back to beating up hookers and pimping them? 

“Tell me one thing,” Doyle said, hedging. He regarded Eddie thoughtfully. The prisoner had the grace not to squirm nor fawn seductively. Doyle felt like he was seeing him clearly for the first time. Big blue eyes, long fair hair with the bone structure of a magazine model. Eddie Pickup must have had a hellish life, as pretty as a girl but with the wrong parts. Was he a man or a woman? What had his childhood been like? Did his own misfortune validate the violence and brutality he’d meted out to others?

As much as Doyle wanted to dislike him on principle, he had nigglings of guilt for his past assumptions that Ponce Eddie was simply a detestable person without any redeeming values. Sure he could as slippery as an eel, and the outrageous sexuality was off-putting, but Doyle had had a tumultuous childhood himself, complete with the textbook alcoholic, abusive father. Should he be judging Eddie so harshly? Eddie had gone to prison for his earlier crimes and the authorities felt he’d paid his price.

“You’re staring, ducks.” Eddie preened as much as he could cuffed to a chair, tossing his head so that his fringe fell over one eye. “Like what you see, do you?”

“Sod off,” Doyle said gruffly. “This is off the record, personal. You’re free to answer or not, however you see fit.”

“Not free from where I sit.” Eddie raised a blond eyebrow, rattling the cuff chains.

“Were you born like that?” Doyle jerked his head to include Eddie’s mismatched parts. From this angle, Eddie’s male bits were sharply defined through the rough canvass overall, but if Doyle judged him on size, he was smaller than average. His breasts were tiny and pert like a teenage girl’s but he’d never need a bra.

Eddie barked a bitter laugh. “You think I’d do this to meself for a lark? Even my mam said I should be in a geek show. Cast me away, didn’ she?” He looked at the floor, no longer at all coquettish, the pain of his mother’s cruelty evident. “She said she screamed when I come out of her—and not because of the birth pains.”

Keeping his sympathy off his face, Doyle didn’t let up. “You work the streets?”

“You’ve read my book, you must know the plot. I was quite the novelty, luv,” Eddie answered sardonically. “Got all the perverts and kinks. That sort of thing rubs off—I worked me way up the ladder, took control of a stable and came out on top.” He ground out the last, proud of the accomplishment, despite that it had cost him dearly.

“You beat your girls bloody. I saw,” Doyle responded, remembering finding one of the hookers from Eddie’s stable in an alley. That was before he’d actually met Ponce Eddie in the Met interrogation room and sicked up his guts after.

“Can’t change what I done.” Eddie nodded, his eyes bleak. His adam’s apple bobbed once and he looked up at Doyle. “I did those girls wrong. I know it, they know it and it’s in the past now. I paid the price. But please…” He was keeping a stiff upper lip, like a good Brit, but there was real fear in his eyes. “The Scrubs…don’t send me back. It was hell. I can tell you things about Ev’s en’erprises, but I want t’get out off this bleeding island. Start a new life.”

“With Ev—erm, Knowland?” Doyle asked, surprised that he was actually interested to know. The two of them together must look an odd pair; Eddie so tall and slender, Knowland like a fleshy toad. He was reminded of a TV programme he’d seen a few years back called Flickers. The female lead had been quite tall and the man short and round. Not at all what society expected of a couple. Being in a homosexual relationship himself, Doyle was beginning to examine the legitimacy of societal norms. Why was there such a demand to conform?

“He’s a nice enough bloke, but m’heart wouldn’t break if we was apart.” Eddie licked his bottom lip. “Any chance of a cuppa, maybe some biscuits?”

Brought up short by the abrupt change in subject, Doyle knocked on the interview room door and asked the agent in the hall for a pot and something to eat.

“How’d you and Knowland meet?” Doyle asked, leaning against the door so he was behind Eddie. 

“Got out of the pen, didn’t have a quid to support myself, what am I supposed to do, go back on the game?” Eddie was philosophical. “Ev needed help with this an’ that. Nothing illegal, I’m here to tell you.”

“Just slightly bent?” 

“You was a copper, that’s only one opinion.” Eddie chuckled. He slouched as much as he could with his cuffed wrists. “Ev’s got a good heart. Not much t’look at but he was good to me.”

Doyle felt the knock against the door vibrating against his spine and turned to accept the tea tray from Betty. She smiled sweetly, waving a hand at Jax taking his own tea break in the corridor. 

“Cowley wants a word when you’re through,” she said.

“Ta.” Doyle brought the tray over. “I’ll play mother, shall I?” he asked, glancing at Eddie’s shackles. For a moment, he’d almost forgotten that he was supposed to be interrogating a prisoner who had specific information on a wanted suspect. He poured out tea and milk, mentally berating himself for that breach.

Eddie smirked, waggling his fingers at the tempting chocolate digestives on a green plate. 

After a sip of his tea, Doyle toughened his core. Sure, he’d been taken in by Eddie’s story, and could easily imagine events Eddie hadn’t touched on: a fellow who looked like him would have been a prize to some gang leader in The Scrubs. Still, he couldn’t shirk his duty. He held up a single biscuit, just out of Eddie’s reach. 

“I can see your side of certain affairs, and might find it possible to give some clemency if my superior agrees, but I cannot take on faith that you’ll deliver,” Doyle said firmly. “I need facts.”

The flirty behaviour dropping into place like a mask, Eddie pouted prettily, and pushed out a plimsoll clad foot to brush against Doyle’s red trainers. “I’d throw myself on the…” he widened his eyes suggestively, “dignity of the court if necessary.”

“We’re past the act, Edmund,” Doyle said severely, aware how much he disliked the name. “You give me concrete information or this is over now.”

“I was… knowledgeable about certain aspects of Bautista’s business as pertains to certain prohibited substances—“

“Old news, my lad. I require facts; need to give our squad something to do. Results count.”

Going still, Eddie pursed his lips. “Ev’s laid out the bread and honey for them horses to grease Bautista’s palm so’s he could import—“

Doyle held his breath. He had to let this play out as it would. There could be no chance of subliminally influencing Eddie by suggesting words Doyle wanted him to say. 

“That new stuff, crack cocaine into London,” Eddie whispered, his face pale. “He didn’ know how to manufacture the stuff at first, but a few of his comrades got the recipe. It’s cheaper to bring in the raw product and make it here.”

“That’s the facts.” Doyle nodded once, handing over three chocolate biscuits. “Once you’ve had your elevenses, you’ll be escorted back to the holding cell whilst I talk with me boss.”

Eddie had to bend awkwardly to eat the digestives from his cuffed hand. “A drinkie to wash ‘em down?” he implored, waggling his fingers at the tea cup.

Doyle had forgotten that Eddie couldn’t raise the cup to his mouth. As with the night before, the close proximity was disquieting when he tipped the cup against Eddie’s lip.

“You intrigue me, luv,” Eddie whispered between sips. “So aggressively masculine in those tight trousers, so beautiful with those eyes, yet you obviously like being told what to do—“

“Enough!” Doyle snapped, jerking the cup so tea splashed on Eddie’s cheek. “I’ll talk to you later.” He stalked away, drumming on the door until Jax let him out. How the hell did Eddie slide under his skin so effortlessly? Was Eddie a dominant? Was it that obvious that Doyle submitted to Bodie? His belly clenched at the idea of others finding out their secret.

~*~

Shivering in his wet, muddy jumper, Sid shoved one foot against the wall of the horse box as the vehicle turned wide off the motorway. He was damned uncomfortable, the stump aching like a sore tooth and the middle two fingers on his usually reliable right hand swelled up like bangers without the mash. He chuckled wearily—they’d been mashed all right. He was fairly sure—having had broken bones of all sorts in the past—that the two fingers had snapped when Alf stepped on his hand.

His right wrist was tied to the pole separating the stalls for Syah and Faerie. However, he could see out of the small window high up in the metal side of the van and his kidnappers hadn’t removed his wrist watch.

It had taken some quite unpleasant twisting to manoeuvre his arm so that he could read the face of his watch. They’d left his farm at half past nine in the morning. From his view out of the window, he could occasionally see taller lorries passing swiftly and the tops of trees. Once he glimpsed a road sign with the helpful information that they were on the M1 motorway headed north, and Bedford was four miles ahead. That had been over an hour ago by his watch.

So where were Alf and Flat Cap taking him? Had to be somewhere with accommodations for the horses. Although, Sid had his doubts about their worthiness as stable lads since they hadn’t even known which horse was Syah.

Faerie whinnied loudly over the rumbled of the tyres and Syah answered her instantly, calm and steady.

“Keep asking, Faerie,” Sid said out loud. “Maybe we’ll find out where we’re going soon enough.” He rotated his right wrist, pulling on the ropes that held him. His hand was too swollen to pull the fingers through the narrow loop around his wrist. “Don’t fear, my darling,” Sid continued. “We won’t be staying there very long. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

~*~

Chico cursed under his breath as he took the turning into the drive too sharply and almost lost control of his motor bike. The wheels slipped in the wet dirt, splashing mud against the white trousers of his gi. He eased up on the brakes, pulling the bike to the right to avoid Sid’s horse trailer and pulled to a stop without a complete dousing. 

“Sid boy!” he bellowed the moment the engine was off. The motorcycle was loud, Sid would know he’d returned, but there was nary a sound from either the house or the barn. Not even so much as a neigh from one of the horses. “Bleedin’ git tryin’ to act like a country gent,” he muttered. 

His belly rumbling with hunger, Chico marched in through the front door of the house. Sid had never forgotten a lunch date before. What had him so involved that he’d missed lunch? Chico had nursed two beers from half eleven until nearly half past twelve. He’d used the barman’s phone to call the house, without an answer.

Despite his strop, a small voice in the back of Chico’s head kept reminding him that this wasn’t like Sid at all. Sid Halley was methodical and punctual. Something wasn’t right, but he didn’t want to dwell—not yet. He indulged his righteous anger, past caring that he’d put muddy boot prints on the lounge carpet. 

Chico grabbed the remains of a two day old meat pie from the fridge and thrust it into the microwave. He’d done several hours of intense karate and judo; he needed protein. Over the whine and rumble of the microwave, Chico listened for sounds of Sid. He had to be in the barn, fussing over those bloody horses. 

Except there weren’t any horse related noises. Certainly not the racket Chico would expect from three horses and a cow. He stared out the window, seeing Zara by himself in the paddock, head down, clearly dozing. Even the twittering of birds in the trees and woodland creatures burrowing in the muck seemed absent. That clamour was often so loud it kept him awake at night. In London-town, he could sleep like an infant with buses, taxis and panda cars—with sirens whooping—all going past his window.

When the microwave chimed to announce that his food was hot, Chico’s heart slammed against his ribs. Why was it so quiet? The free floating anxieties of living so far out in the country swarmed out like bees. He was usually better able to suppress those fears. Where was Sid? What had happened?

Gulping air, Chico forced a calm on himself. He had to act like the trained investigator that he was. Examine the facts. Sid had missed a planned lunch by over an hour. He’d been expecting the farrier and didn’t—as far as Chico knew—have any other specific agenda that morning. Had a new client called for him?

Sid could not have gone far, because the horse trailer was still in the front drive, blocking the garage where Sid’s car was parked.

Ignoring the cooling meat pie, Chico swung open the back door, surveying the yard. Nothing looked out of place. Zara raised his head lazily.

“Sid!” Chico called without expecting an answer. Had he gone for a long walk and lost track of time? Or worse, fallen and hit his head? Nah. First off, it had tilted down rain earlier, so it wasn’t likely that he’d have gone for a hike. Secondly, Sid was a tough old bugger and well used to knocking himself about after his career as a jockey. If he was injured from a fall, or more likely, a kick from one of the horses, he’d have got himself home.

Walking carefully and casting about for clues, Chico paused when he noticed the muddy ground in front of the barn churned up like there had been a disturbance—possibly even a fight. Tracking was not his forte; raised in the city, he could pick a lock inside of a minute and spy a car following his without fail. He skirted the mire, examining the unnatural swirls, clear evidence that someone or something had slid—or been dragged—through the mud. 

_Bad, that._

“Sid?” Chico called out again, hating the way his voice wavered and broke like a teenager’s. He pushed on the barn door, letting it swing all the way open before entering. Chico didn’t carry a gun very often, but he suddenly missed the comforting bulk of a pistol in his hand.

Matilde lowed solemnly, but nothing else stirred. Chico took a step inside, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. Ninja was sleeping on the barn floor, in a patch of cheery sunlight, curled in the crook where Sid’s prosthesis wrist met his plastic thumb. The middle digit stuck out stiffly. 

Chico sucked in a startled breath, waking Ninja. The cat hissed, arching her back like a classic Halloween cat. 

“Shush, shush!” Chico took a cautious step, glancing around. The sight of Sid’s bio-electric arm discarded on the wooden planks was unsettling. Sid Halley would never willingly go anywhere without his arm. He rarely removed it except in the bedroom. Someone had got him out by force. How the hell had that happened? 

Ninja meowed, appeased by the familiar face. She nosed the floor, pawing at a small gap between the boards.

“Where’s Sid, mog?” Chico asked walking the perimeter of the barn. He couldn’t bring himself to touch Sid’s arm. He was no longer at all hungry, his belly twisted in knots. The mess in the mud out front had been Sid fighting for his life. Had he left any other clues?

 _Meow!_ Ninja pronounced urgently, all but inserting her front paw into the narrow space. She pounced and wiggled back, ready to ambush on her prey. When she moved, her shadow slid to the side, revealing a green glint stuck in the floor. 

Feeling like he’d been slammed in the solar plexus, Chico bent down and pried the emerald from between the wooden planks. This had certainly not been there this morning! Sid’s stiff finger pointed directly to the emerald’s hiding place—and the shelf of Chico’s judo and trophy awards. They’d been misplaced. He knew without a doubt that the trophy for 1979, the one with the blue base and gold Judo expert on top, had been moved one space out of order. The green and gold prize for 1980 was next to 1978’s Union Jack decorated award.

A sign from Sid? Chico was the only person who’d notice such a small change. Swallowing down his apprehensions, Chico reached up and selected the blue award. It was far heavier than it used to be, and something rattled inside. 

Alarmed by the clatter when he shook the trophy, Ninja ran out the door. Chico froze, watching her go. Was someone else still here, waiting to strike? It didn’t take a detective to see that Zara was the only horse on the grounds any more. Unless the other two horses had jumped the fence and run away, Syah and Faerie had been taken. Assumedly by the same thug who’d grabbed Sid minus his arm. Why?

Chico unscrewed the base of the trophy and poured five more emeralds into his palm-- thousands of pounds worth of gems. What sense did that make? The kidnappers had taken an ex-jockey with one arm and two racers past their prime—one of them lame--and left behind easily sellable emeralds.

Wishing their barn had a phone like the one in Glastonbury, Chico ran for the house to call Bodie and Doyle.

~*~

Bodie whistled jauntily as he strode down the hall at CI5 headquarters. His lips and the left side of his jaw were tingly and half numb from the Novocain the dentist had used, but the old gent had told him that a nice hot cup of tea would set him to rights. He’d practically prescribed that Bodie eat something soft along with the tea, for his elevenses. Convenient that Bodie kept a packet of mini Swiss rolls in his desk drawer. Be prepared, that was his motto.

He’d stop off in the office before heading to the rest room for the tea. He needed to tuck the little item he’d got from the dentist into that locked drawer, anyway—something he intended to share, or more specifically, use on Doyle at the soonest opportunity. They really needed to schedule a day of kinky play. Simply thinking of Doyle wearing those metal chains on his wrists, plus the newest acquisition, had Bodie hard.

He got lost in the fantasy of Doyle restrained with his hands behind him, kneeling on his heels with his cock stiff and ready, mouth spread wide…

“Watch where you’re going, Bodie!” Doyle said churlishly, shoving at Bodie’s shoulder. 

“Where’d you come from?” Bodie demanded, his daydreams quashed. The left side of his lips felt puffy and unresponsive. He had the urge to over-enunciate his words.

“Could ask you the same question,” Doyle retorted, all but bristling. Even his curls seemed tighter wound than usual. “Dentist drill down into the cavities caused by all the sugar you eat?”

“What’s got you all stroppy?” Bodie countered, keeping the bag from Dr Myron behind his back.

“Yet another encounter with Ponce.” Doyle pushed through the office door. “He wants to trade favours. I’ll need to speak with Cow—“

The ringing telephone on the desk interrupted his harangue.

“H’lo,” Bodie answered, opening his locked drawer whilst juggling the phone on his right shoulder. Any call that made it all the way to their inner sanctum had already been vetted by the main switchboard. It was either Cowley or other official business.

 _“Bodie!”_ Chico Barnes cried, near panic edging his voice. _“Sid’s missing.”_

“What happened?” Bodie asked. Chico was not generally so volatile. Ignoring the tempting Swiss rolls, Bodie shoved his bag in the drawer and beckoned Doyle over so they could both hear.

 _“Been gone the morning, meself, at martial arts practice. Sid was to have the farrier round to shoe the ‘orses,”_ Chico explained succinctly. _“When I returned, ‘e was gone, along with your ‘orses.”_ He paused to take a breath, clearly calming with someone else on the case. _“Zara’s still here, but they’d left something in their wake.”_

“What?” Doyle prompted.

_“Several thousand pounds worth of emeralds.”_

~*~

Sid’s new accommodation was much improved from the horse box. The barn could have been featured in an issue of Architectural Digest for elegant horse habitats. Syah and Faerie’s stalls were painted white, with wide interiors, large enough for the horses to turn around. 

Luckily, Sid knew exactly—more or less—where they were. Alf and Flat Cap were not exactly the most intelligent kidnappers. Unless he was wide off the mark; a combination of Sid’s own internal compass, his watch to check how long they’d driven and the odd road sign, set them in Northamptonshire in the East Midlands. A considerably long walk—or horse back ride-- from his own patch of England, but a telephone call to CI5 would set them to rights. 

If he had a telephone.

Or a working right hand.

With Flat Cap gaily waving his gun, Sid had played docile and led the horses from the box. While walking, he’d stolen a few quick looks around. A huge estate, probably built a century ago, with a large manor house up the lane, and an extensive set of stables for far more than two horses. Predictably, Faerie had bucked, rolled her eyes and protested shrilly at the injustice of it all. 

Despite the pain in his fingers, Sid had kept his hand clamped around the lead rope, afraid she’d bolt. Even Syah seemed disturbed by yet another new stall in yet another barn. He’d nudged Faerie with his nose, pausing long enough to show that he was displeased, too. In such palatial digs, Syah and Faerie looked dirty and bedraggled, covered in sweat and mud from the dust-up at Sid’s, not to mention the drive here.

“Get the bloody ‘orses bedded down. I’ve got to explain to the gov’nor why we’re late,” Alf complained, jutting his chin at the barn.

Sid did not protest when Flat Cap tied his arm to a post in the barn. Instead, he kept his eyes and ears open. These two, for all their testosterone laden aggression, were not very good at their job. If they had in fact followed him and Chico from Glastonbury to Roxbye, why hadn’t they stolen the horses in the dead of night when all were asleep? Instead, they’d waited ‘till morning, even letting Shanks do his job before they swooped in.

He could only hope that Chico was far better at figuring out what had happened and had sent out an alarm.

Meanwhile, he had little but his own wits to work with.

“Mr Knowland’s not t‘ome yet, is he? Weren’t no car in the drive,” Flat Cap said as he and Alf walked out of the barn.

Knowland! The man Doyle and Bodie were investigating. He kept the knowledge off his face. His kidnappers might be idiots but he didn’t want them aware that he knew who their employer was. So what did Syah and Faerie have to do with drugs smuggling?

Sid heard the snick of a lock on the wooden door and set about to free himself. He had a cigarette lighter in his pocket. Unfortunately, getting the bugger out would be a trial. There was no way he could pretzel himself around so that the hand tied in front of him could reach his back pocket, much less bend his fingers enough to grasp the small device.

He had to think of something else. In the stall to his left, Syah poked his long black nose down, his breath ruffling Sid’s hair. 

~*~

Doyle drove. In his frame of mind, he needed something to concentrate on other than Ponce Eddie. Navigating the M4 was perfect with its congestion of cars and lorries, not to mention traffic cones cordoning off sections of the road for omnipresent workers digging holes in the tarmac. Plus, he could pretend that Eddie’s words didn’t niggle on his masculinity. 

He and Bodie had spoken briefly with Cowley before leaving for Roxbye. He was going to talk with the CI5 barristers about possibly clemency for Eddie in exchange for more information.

Like where Sid Halley had been taken? Would Eddie even know?

“You think Knowland snatched Halley as leverage?” Bodie mused out loud.

“He’s no longer as famous as years ago when he won the National Cup,” Doyle replied, staring down the strip of motorway. “He’s not particularly wealthy—“

“He does quite well in the stocks. I suspect he’s got a packet tucked away in his sock drawer,” Bodie reminded. He pulled a squashed mini Swiss roll from his jacket pocket, unwrapping it carefully.

“However, thus far there’s been no ransom demand.” Doyle tried to keep his eyes on the Mercedes in front of him, but the view of Bodie opening his mouth and pushing the cylindrical cake inside was too appealing.

“Early days, yet.”

“Avoid mentioning that optimistic sentiment to Chico, will you?” Doyle grimaced, annoyed with his own lust and Bodie’s black humour. “Just been to the dentist and already you’re devouring sugar?”

“To counteract the sour in the car,” Bodie said serenely, licking chocolate off his fingers. His voice went low and sensual, eyes meeting Doyle’s. “Got something from Dr Myron to sweeten you up, for when we can play after this case is finished.” He grinned, left eyebrow canted more sharply than usual.

Doyle inhaled so quickly he coughed, his cock rising at the thought. God, he wanted to spend time with Bodie, alone, in the worst way. “What is it?” he asked, hating that he was so needy. What would a dentist have that would be anything other than painful?

“Can’t tell you now, pet.” Bodie waggled a finger. “I’ll only have you drooling in anticipation.” 

He looked unbearably smug, which made Doyle want to smack him, no matter how curious he was. 

“You won’t need a numbing agent and there’ll be no drilling of your pearly whites.” 

“Good to know,” Doyle said snidely. One mention of what was most probably a kinky plaything and he was practically begging? He was humbled to submit to Bodie and yet craved his dominance in equal measure.

Bodie chuckled. “Glad to see you,” he said, eyeing the evidence nicely presented in Doyle’s lap. Very slowly, as if he didn’t want to startle the driver, Bodie placed his palm over Doyle’s erection.

“Bo-die…” Doyle sighed, easing his thighs together to trap those fingers in place. Warmth spread across his groin, swelling his cock further. He tightened both hands on the steering wheel to strengthen his resolve. The sleeves of his jacket shifted with the action, revealing the heavy linked chain on his left wrist. Catching Bodie’s raunchy grin out of the corner of his eye, Doyle grit his teeth. This was no place to have an orgasm, not when he was driving on the motorway!

“Steady on, Ray,” Bodie said softly, squeezing once before deliberately pulling his hand away. “Back to the situation at hand—the emeralds are a new wrinkle. Where did they come from?”

Doyle went from sexually frustrated to fury in seconds. “Damn you, Bodie.” Here he was fantasising about his own pleasure when Chico had to be scared out of his mind for his partner. Struggling to get his thoughts back on the case, Doyle saw the turning for Halley’s farm up ahead.

“And what do they have to do with drugs smuggling?” he snapped, slipping the Capri past a postal van to take the next right.

“The fifty thousand pound question,” Bodie answered. “Or whatever rate emeralds are going for on the current world market.”

~*~

Chico pounced the moment Doyle and Bodie got out of their car. “There’s been no ransom demand and Sid hasn’t phoned,” he reported, to prove he was no novice here. He’d worked kidnapping cases before, just not one involving his own partner. As desperate as he was to find Sid, he had to keep his wits. “Thanks for coming,” he added.

“You two are part of the team,” Doyle said, shaking Chico’s hand in a tight grasp. 

“Besides the gems, any other evidence that Sid left against his will?” Bodie asked, glancing at Doyle. 

“His pos’fe’ic arm lying on the barn floor,” Chico answered, his belly churning. That to him was the most telling. Sid must have been mortified when it was pulled from his stump. 

“Clear indication that he was forced,” Bodie agreed, his expression grim.

“More over there.” Chico jerked his head to the churned up mud near the front of the barn. His nerves were still in a state but he was surprised how relieved he was to have his friends there to help. He’d grown up a solitary lad. He could be charming and had many acquaintances, but the combined misfortunes of being a bastard raised in a Catholic convent and the shortest kid every year in school had taught him to rely on his own abilities. He was tough, strong and capable. Sid Halley had always enhanced those parts of him whilst completing his soul. He couldn’t imagine living without Sid. 

“Definitely looks like a struggle took place.” Doyle frowned. He indicated to hoofprints, footprints and tyre tracks. “That’s where they walked the horses from the barn to a horse box. Halley and two other men, yeah, Bodie?”

“I’d say so,” Bodie agreed, squatting to touch a finger to several impressions of different shoes in the muck. “Which are Halley’s, Chico?”

Picturing what Sid had been wearing that morning, Chico pointed to the smallest prints. “’Ad on wellies ‘cause it were spittin’.” The other two sets were larger, one a thick heeled boot and the patterned sole of a pair of trainers. “As for the tyres, had to be something big enough to transport the ‘orses.” He waved a hand at the horse trailer on the south side of the barn. “That’s the one we used last night, so these two sods knew what they was about and brought their own.”

“They were aware you had Syah and Faerie Lights.” Doyle continued to survey the muddy drive. “How many vehicles do you and Sid keep?”

“My bike, the trailer, the old Ford n’ Sid’s new Merc, which hasn’t been converted for one hand driving, so it’s still inside.” Chico gestured at the garage. There was a wide swath in the mud up the lane. “Me bike skidded when I rode in, nearly slammed into the ‘orse trailer. S’why I’m so filthy.” He looked down at himself. He’d completely forgotten to change out of the sweaty, muddy gi he’d worn to the dojo hours earlier. Seemed like a century ago. It had taken Bodie and Doyle almost an hour to arrive—how long had Sid been gone? Was he hurt?

“Those are from the second horse box,” Doyle said, tracing his finger in the air above parallel tracks. “So who made those marks?” A set of narrow tyre treads proved that a smaller van had been in the lane that morning, too.

“Before the horse trailer was here,” Bodie commented. “They’re underneath our kidnappers’.”

Chico hid a wince. The word kidnappers sent gooseflesh down his spine. “Most likely Nicholas Shanks, the farrier. He’d left a message to say he’d come round at ‘alf past eight to shoe the ‘orses.” He glanced down at the hoof prints left in the moist earth. Why hadn’t he noticed this earlier? “That’s odd, that.”

“What?” Bodie replied.

“’E clearly removed ‘em, but didn’t put nuffin back on. See their hoof marks? Neither’s wearing shoes. Sid wouldn’t leave ‘is ‘orses without metal shoes on.”

“So that gives us more or less a time when the kidnappers arrived,” Doyle put in. “How long would it take to remove their shoes?”

“Not an hour,” Chico explained. “And I’ve rung up Mrs Shanks. She’s told me Nick’s been at the National Hunt training centre the rest of the day working on their ‘orses. Big job, that is.”

“And you left for your practice before Shanks arrived?”

Chico had been berating himself for that since he discovered Sid missing. Why hadn’t he stayed to help with the new animals? He could go through his kata forms anywhere—and Sid had been his sparring partner often enough in the past.

“Not your fault, Chico,” Doyle said quietly, nudging him with his elbow.

“Them lot,” Chico waved a hand at the marks, starting to walk to the barn, “must’ve come at ‘alf past nine or later. I expected Sid down at the local at eleven thir’y. ‘E’d been missing at least three hours by the time I returned at ‘alf past noon.”

“We passed the pub on the way in here,” Bodie said with a nod. “So what the hell did they want with the horses? And where are these emeralds?”

Shoving back the barn door, Chico led them inside. The plastic arm unmoving on the wood still gave him the willies. “Didn’t touch nuffing ‘cept the jewels, and those trophies,” he said. “Knew you’d want to get your lab rats in to lift some dabs off the arm.”

“That is disturbing,” Doyle observed with a wince, bending down to examine the bio-electric prosthesis. “Never seen it without Sid.”

“No blood anywhere,” Bodie said, visually searching the room. 

“That’s the best news!” Chico exploded bitterly. “’E’s a fighter, Sid is—‘e’d not let them take ‘im easily. I come in here earlier, saw the fingers pointin’ like they is, and me cat was pawing at this in the floorboards.” He grabbed the blue pillar of the ’79 award and dropped two bright green stones into Doyle’s palm. 

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “And there are more?”

“Sid must’ve hidden them before them bully boys arrived.” Chico poured the other four gems into Bodie’s hands. “Where they came from is your guess.”

“Almost the colour of your eyes, Raymond,” Bodie said, holding a faceted stone up to the light so the green refractions skittered across the wall. 

“Shut it,” Doyle said with half a smile, peering at the emeralds Bodie held.

Their banter only made Chico miss Sid more. He swallowed against the lump in his throat, his stomach rumbling. He’d never eaten the meat pie left neglected in the microwave.

“With the horses?” Doyle asked thoughtfully.

“You think they was inside Syah or Faerie?” Chico asked, aghast. “Like them birds who smuggle drugs out over the border by swallowin’ em like dumplings?” He rubbed his belly, not sure he wanted anything to eat after all.

“I doubt it’d be possible to get a horse to do that.” Bodie chuckled, but he sounded uncertain. “Plus—getting them out would be…”

“Unpleasant,” Doyle finished for him.

“At the very least.” Bodie glanced at his partner with a smirk. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Is there some other way the emeralds could be hidden in a horse?”

“The shoes,” Chico exclaimed, the answer coming to him in a flash. “S’why the ‘orses don’ ‘ave their shoes on now. Must’ve spooked Nick Sparks something dreadful, lit’le green stones falling out of the ‘ooves.”

“Which means that the kidnappers took Sid, apparently unaware that he’d concealed the gems before they got here,” Doyle answered.

“This has to be Knowland,” Bodie added. “It wasn’t simply the horses he was exporting to Bautista, it was the emeralds. To pay for drugs?”

“As good as a reason as any.” Doyle nodded. “I was interrogating Eddie this morning—he’s already admitted to the drugs scheme and wants a reduced sentence if he spills. He’d have insight on where Knowland might have bolted.”

“And where they could be keeping the horses,” Bodie said.

“As well as Sid,” Chico put in. He had no doubt of Sid’s survival skills, but he could still worry. A great deal.

~*~

“Sidney Halley, as I live and breathe.” A rotund man with fleshy lips and slightly bulging eyes stood in the door of the barn, hands on his hips. Alf and Flat Cap hovered nervously behind him.

Sid straightened as much as he could, sliding his legs out in front of him. So this was the infamous Everett Knowland. 

“Alf, Joss, explain yourselves!” the man called behind him. The lackeys must not have been fast enough, because he snapped his fingers. 

At the sharp sound, Faerie erupted, smashing Open the door of the stall with both front hooves. Her squeal was like a dentist’s drill, high and piercing. 

“Mr Knowland, don’t…!” Alf cried.

Sid twisted around as much as he could, his heart hammering against his ribs. In his current position, secured to the middle post separating the two stalls, he was in danger of being trampled by her sharp hooves. Even a glancing blow could cause a head wound or open a large gash in his flesh.

“What the hell?” Knowland shouted.

Alf ran halfway into the barn, breathing noisily. “She done this before, nearly cut open me ‘arm. Halley got her calm!”

“Haven’t had Faerie very long have you?” Sid said sarcastically out of the side of his mouth. “Faerie-girl, Faerie. Hup, shush.” He couldn’t stand all the way up with his wrist anchored so low, but he came to a crouch, holding out his truncated left arm. Phantom pain from his missing hand, once crushed during a race by another runner, reminded him of what he no longer had. Fear rushed in, something he rarely felt around horses.

She bucked. Luckily, the stall was large, but with the door open, she could escape easily. Arching her back, Faerie gathered to yank her rope free from the knot and bolt when Syah nickered, soft and sweet. Faerie froze, a shiver running the length of her sweat frothed sides. She protested vehemently, snorting through her nostrils and pawing the ground. 

Joss, his flat cap askew, froze where he was, clearly aware of the dangers after what happened the last time.

“Go get her!” Alf whispered, using a blade to slice through the rope holding Sid’s wrist. 

Sid nearly fell when the restraint came free. However, years of crouching low over a horse’s withers had strengthened his thighs. He was used to adjusting for sudden shifts of weight. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he came to a stand, centring on Faerie. She was still in fight or flight; the only thing keeping her in place was the rope tied to the barn wall. Frustrated, she thrust back again, nearly catching Sid with a wicked kick.

Syah called out to his mate and she spun toward him, the whites of her eyes showing all around the iris. 

“Faerie-girl,” Sid soothed. “It’s all right, my sweet, listen to Syah.” He managed to sidle between the dividing wall and the mass of quivering horse flesh, the stink of her terror strong in his nostrils. Sid raised his right hand slowly to her flank, not quite touching her. 

Between Syah’s low crooning and Sid’s presence, Faerie was calming. She hauled in huge lungfuls of air, blowing out her nose. 

“Good girl,” Sid murmured. His momentary fear had subsided. He was never afraid when standing this close to a horse. It was the one place on earth he felt whole. 

He couldn’t bend his broken fingers enough to close them around Faerie’s halter, so he pressed his hand against her neck, feeling the throb of her pulse under his palm. Resting his head on Faerie, Sid indulged in a few deep breaths. He’d prefer not to have that happen again.

“I now see why you two addle-pated half-wits brought a former jockey with you,” Knowland said dryly, his voice like thunder. “You told me, Alfred, that you knew horses.”

Sid turned enough to see his captors. Alf contorted his long face, as if trying not to further annoy his employer. Joss hung his head, glowering but no match for his boss’ dominance. He was a nasty piece of work, amused by cruelty and violence yet completely unable to stand up for himself in front of Knowland.

“I can pick a winner at every race,” Alf proclaimed proudly. “But I never did say I’d lead ‘em ‘round like a fuckin’ stable boy.”

“Which brings up the point, what the hell good are you then?” Knowland roared. “Sid Halley’s worth the both of you.”

Faerie screamed abruptly in response, her whole body tensing. Sid wanted to take her out on a track with half a dozen hurdles and ride the aggression out of her. By his estimation, between being brought over to England and shuttled between three barns, that he knew of, she hadn’t had enough running. Racehorses needed to run, it was in their blood.

“Took ‘im down to size, we did, the great ‘Alley. Only got one ‘and,” Joss boasted.

“Where are the horses’ shoes?” Knowland asked quietly. His fury was no less evident in the tightly held stance and voice. “And why didn’t you bring Syah and Faerie Lights to me last night when I expected them?”

Ah, Sid thought, _now we’re getting somewhere_. 

“Their shoes?” Alf bristled. “You wanted the damned horses, we brung ‘em, and I nearly lost me arm!” He held out the injured limb, hanky tied jauntily around his bicep, and pointed at the horse box visible through the open door. “We was driving to lit’le Ponce’s holdings when those CI5 gits showed up and seized all your goods. Couldn’t just prance on in and take the damned horses from under their noses.”

“We’d brung them some oats,” Joss said quickly, as if proving his worth. “So we waited and followed ‘Alley and his friend.”

“You followed my horse trailer from Glastonbury?” Sid asked.

All three swung around to glare at him as if they’d forgotten he was there. He stroked Faerie’s neck. The sweat had left rivulets in the mud caked on her white coat. She needed to be washed and groomed. Sid yearned to do such a menial task that didn’t require thought. Hard to imagine that this morning, he’d been revelling in mucking out the horse stalls. 

“Sticking yer nose where it don’ belong,” Alf sneered. “We was—“

“Wait,” Knowland cut Alf off. “Let Mr Halley speak.”

“I was wondering why they appeared at my barn, over twelve hours after I drove out of the lane with the two stolen horses.” Sid eased away from Faerie, giving Syah a perfunctory pat before standing between the two stalls, exactly where he’d been restrained. “The trip doesn’t take even half that long.”

“Those horses were mine,” Knowland corrected. “Paid in full.”

“My mistake.” Out of habit, Sid kept his truncated arm tucked in the pocket of his trousers. It felt very different: lighter, more insignificant without the prosthesis weighing down his shoulder. “Syah and Faerie were essentially alone all night—quite easy to snatch back. Me housemate snores a bit.” He fabricated that to give some excuse why they might not have waked if a van drove into the yard. In point of fact, both he and Chico were fairly light sleepers. “Yet, they wait until the morning after people have come and gone. Doesn’t seem like the most intelligent way to steal a horse.”

“Hey! The tyre had a puncture!” Joss protested. “Had to get it repaired. Luckily, Alf there called the Jockey Club for Halley’s address, pretendin’ to be—“

“Shut your gob,” Knowland said sharply. 

_The Jockey Club had given out his private address?_ Sid fumed inwardly. There would be words exchanged with the Jockey Club board when all this was over.

“You think you could have done better, Mr Halley?” Knowland questioned.

Sid smiled, going for enigmatic. “I have no experience in that sort of thing. Just puttin’ out my twopenny’s worth.”

“Since you’ve got my attention.” Knowland frowned, crossing his arms and looking Sid up and down as if assessing him worth far less than tuppence. 

Well accustomed to scrutiny, Sid didn’t give anything away. He’d been judged all his life: too short, too poor, with no father and now, no arm. He’d learned to let it roll off his back—more or less. Not that Knowland was that much taller than Sid. Possibly a half an inch, not much more. Sid resisted the impulse to rise up on his toes to negate the miniscule height advantage.

“Where are your CI5 mates holding my Eddie?” Knowland demanded.

He was clearly aware that Sid worked with Bodie and Doyle. _Interesting_. “Don’t know to whom you’re referring,” Sid answered politely. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

Knowland got up into Sid’s face, belligerent as a bulldog. “What the hell did you do with my emeralds, Halley?” 

Sid stood his ground, his back flat against the post. “I’d love to own a few emeralds, but my ex-wife took all the jewels I ever bought her.”

“Think you’re such a wit,” Knowland sneered. “They were in the fool horse’s shoe. More valuable that Syah himself.”

“Wot are you going on about?” Alf threw a wild glance at Joss. “Did you know…?”

Joss shook his head, lifting his heavy shoulders in confusion. 

“Of course I didn’t tell you two idiots,” Knowland exploded, shaking a fist at his men. “You’re already stupid enough to misplace the horses, but losing the emeralds--.” He swung back to Sid, gazing at him speculatively. “Damned CI5 must’ve confiscated the gemstones.”

“I doubt I need to point out that smuggling something in a horse’s shoe is not only dangerous, but a crime,” Sid said, well aware that he could be beaten for such impudence. What was the old saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. He’d already tossed two pennies in, might as well make it a quid. “Royal Humane society---“

Predictably, Knowland raised a hand. It wasn’t he who knocked Sid to the ground, though, it was his enforcer, Joss. A single punch to the face.

Sid breathed out against the pain in his jaw, feeling the wooden floor vibrate when Faerie stomped her hooves restlessly. Sid grabbed the stall post to pull himself upright but Joss swung a foot, bashing his boot against Sid’s shin.

“Keep him in place, Joss,” Knowland commanded, stabbing a finger at Halley. “Where’s that instant camera? We’ll need a keepsake of our guest, to show his friends what a good time he’s having in the country.”

 _Bugger._ The very last thing Sid wanted Chico to see was a photo of him beaten on the ground. Joss kept steady pressure on Sid’s lower leg, forcing him down. _Damned humiliating._ Unfortunately not the first time, nor would it likely be the last in Sid’s lifetime. He banked his anger, settling in for a wait. 

The flash from the camera left after images on Sid’s retina. He hoped he was glaring as much as he’d tried to in the photo. 

“Doubt CI5 cares bugger all for me, mate,” Sid commented dryly, suddenly wishing for a cig. A burst of nicotine would go down a treat just then.

“They have my boy, I have you—“ Knowland focussed directly on Sid, his powerful mask slipping for half a second. He tightened his lips, fear and love showing through. “Throw in the emeralds, too, and it’s a trade.”

_His boy? Who was this Eddie?_

~*~

Bodie insisted they stop for food on the return trip to London. He didn’t care if it was a farmer’s stand next to a peach orchard or a Little Chef; he was past peckish and on the way to ravenous. The single mini Swiss roll hadn’t filled his belly by half. If he knew Raymond, and he did, the fool had lived on tea all day without so much as a biscuit for fibre. It was going on three in the afternoon, lunch time having passed long ago. As for Chico, Bodie suspected he could do with some food, as well. He’d never understand men who forgot to eat when under stress.

They’d had to wait on the lab crew from CI5, giving Chico time to ring the closest neighbour to mind Zarathustra and milk the cow until he returned. Doyle had bullied Chico into a shower and change of clothing but he was unusually quiet afterward. 

“Beef-burgers all around,” Bodie announced, driving into the car park of a McDonald’s. He ignored Doyle’s outraged expression. “Chips and possibly Coca-colas.”

Chico roused from his furious slump in the back seat. “Lemonade, and you’re on.”

“You don’t drink Coke?” Bodie asked, getting out.

“No-one should,” Doyle said loftily. “Strips the enamel off your teeth, it does. And you’ve just been to the dentist this morning.”

The teenage girl at the counter took their orders and the pre-made burgers came out more quickly than what Bodie felt was humanly possible. Still, he tucked into his meal quite happily, one eye on the other two as they ate. Both looked the better for the food. He hadn’t ordered chips for Doyle—waste of time, that was, most days. As expected, Doyle dipped a hand into Bodie’s packet of chips without asking first. Chico watched them with a smirk despite the lingering sadness in his eyes.

“Oi, Chico, did Sid ever ring up that Prince Makki?” Bodie asked. “Regarding whether the horses were stolen or not?”

“Didn’t have a chance.” Chico shook his head dully, dipping a chip into tomato sauce.

Doyle shot Bodie a narrow eyed glance clearly communicating that now was not the time to remind Chico of things Sid didn’t have time to do. 

Bodie sipped his Coca-cola. _Yes, sir!_ Just who was the submissive now?

“I can answer the Makki question,” Doyle said, wiping his hands on a napkin. “The Ponce told me uncategorically that Knowland bought the horses outright as a gift for Bautista.”

Chico abruptly quit his perusal of his lemonade, listening with a quizzical expression.

“One question answered, so many more to solve. You’ll have to grill your mate Ponce again,” Bodie remarked when Doyle filched the last chip.

Doyle looked across the table at him for a long, unfathomable moment. Something was lurking behind his bland expression, but Bodie wasn’t at all sure what it was. 

“You do it.”

“Eddie likes you better,” Bodie said, balling up the paper burger wrappers.

“Ponce Eddie?” Chico asked, sneering. “Blonde, pretty enough t’be a girl?”

“Spot on. How’d you know him?” Doyle replied

“You could say, in a way, ‘e’s me brov’er.” Chico rolled his eyes, lip curled.

“I thought you were a foundling,” Bodie said, very interested in this unexpected—and useful—glimpse into Chico’s youth. 

“And ‘e were abandoned, weren’t he?” Chico answered, heavy on the sarcasm. “The convent was small, we was roommates for a long time. I’ve seen ‘im starkers, Eddie’s not what you’d describe as all man. Got both bits, y’know? Boy and girl.”

“I asked him about that.” Doyle nodded soberly. “He said his mother rejected him.”

“Eddie’s oldern’ me,” Chico continued, “so’s I don’t rightly know when ‘e came to Sister Margarite, but we was friendly as young lads. In ‘is teens, he was out all hours, sex in the streets, you know the drill. Even the Sisters couldn’t do nuffing with ‘im.”

“You may have a link to him that we don’t!” Doyle said, relief evident.

What had gone on between Eddie and Doyle while he was at the dentist? Bodie wondered. Doyle’s discomfort level had increased, if that were possible.

“Nah, this were ages ago.” Chico waved away any thought of meeting his old roommate. “Different lives.” He got up, starting for the car as if to end the conversation completely.

“Eddie was on the game by the time he should have been in fourth or fifth form.” Doyle shoved their trash into a bin, disgustedly. “Don’t know whether to be sorry for him or give him hell for the wrong choices.”

“Most of one, some o’th’other,” Chico muttered, going out the front door.

Having read Eddie Pickup’s arrest record, Bodie knew he was 29 years old. That put him five years older than Chico Barnes. Could Eddie have tried to get Chico out on the streets, too? That would explain the animosity. Bodie imagined Chico ten years earlier: he was 5’6’’now. He must have been barely five feet tall, with those big blue eyes and sunshiny blond curls. Eddie and Chico would have made a gorgeous pair. Exactly what predatory punters looked for on the street, particularly ones who liked pretty young boys. 

Doyle grit his teeth, waiting for Bodie before they walked to the car park. “Chico’s never hidden the fact that he used to steal for a living. You think Eddie tried to pimp him?”

“Crossed my mind,” Bodie said dryly. 

“Still, he could stir up our Ponce, shake Knowland’s hideaway out of him,” Doyle declared. 

~*~

Doyle didn’t even insist that Chico go into the interview room at CI5 headquarters. Proximity would be his accomplice. The three of them went over to the London jail and were processed through security. Waiting for Eddie to be escorted to them, Doyle glanced around the drab, cold room. He’d go mad in a place like this: no beauty, no peace, everything bland but with a pitiless brutality. Little wonder Ponce Eddie turned out the way he was. According to his records, his first arrest for prostitution had been at the age of fourteen. 

After what seemed like a fortnight, a burly warder brought Eddie out. He was shackled; hands in cuffs, feet connected with a chain just long enough for shuffling steps. His long hair was beautifully plaited into an intricate rope, and his cheeks were smooth as a woman’s. Did he even need to shave regularly?

Doyle stared at those chains around Eddie’s ankles and tugged the sleeve of his jacket down over the bracelet adorning his left wrist. The sight of the restrained prisoner revolted him, but sent a shock of arousal to his groin. He really didn’t want to reflect on that unwanted reaction. Very much not the topic to be mulling over while waiting outside the prisoner inquiry room.

Chico inhaled sharply at the sight of Eddie, but didn’t say a word. He took a step back against the wall, fists balled.

Eddie laughed in cruel delight. “Chico, me old china plate. How you’ve grown!”

“No lip out’a you, Pickup,” the warder cautioned, giving him a shove. “Or ye’ll remain in solitary forever.”

“Darling,” Eddie threw back his head a la Marilyn Monroe, “I’d certainly get more sleep that way.”

Doyle glanced over at Bodie. His partner had that haughty air he sometimes got; an aristocrat observing his feudal serfs, one eyebrow lifted in bemusement. Chico didn’t walk over the threshold of the interview room until the warder had locked Ponce Eddie to the table top.

“All in.” the older man waved Chico inside. “Give me a knock where you’re ready for him to go back to his cell.”

“Thank you,” Bodie said politely.

“To what do I owe this unexpected visit _chez moi?_ ” Eddie smiled, lips tight over his front teeth. 

He was holding himself up by sheer willpower, Doyle realised, having had days like that, too. Where the effort of getting through each moment was the only thing keeping him upright, depression holding court in the brain like a dictator. Why the hell was he identifying with Eddie? He wanted to hate the bastard—all the more if what he and Bodie suspected about Chico and Eddie were true. 

“Chico, luv, not even a long time no see kiss?” Eddie taunted. “You can’t imagine ‘ow surprised I am t’see you in with our lovely Raymond and his paramour Bodie.”

“Shut it,” Bodie snapped.

“Not even a lit’le ‘appy to see you,” Chico said, his cheeks flaming. “But I’ve thrown in with this lot, which put a friend of mine in ‘ot water. Seems like you’re the one who can toss ‘im a line.”

“A mystery tied up in an enigma!” Eddie crowed. “Who’s your friend?”

“With yours,” Doyle said, stalling. “We think.”

“With Ev?” Eddie snorted. “You mean, not of ’is own free will, then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Chico snarled.

“CI5 hired a trainer to mind the horses you were allegedly presenting to the drug dealer Bautista. Two men came to his stable and nicked them, along with the trainer,” Bodie put in smoothly. “We’re going on the assumption that your Ev grabbed him.”

Doyle had to admire the tidy explanation Bodie had given the raw facts. And his cool head. 

“You did steal his ‘orses.” Eddie shrugged one narrow shoulder, as coquettish in jail issue blues as he had been in lavender spaghetti straps. “Fair and square, I’d say.”

“You shite!” Chico exploded, lunging at the prisoner. 

Doyle grabbed him by arms, hauling Chico back against the wall. “Shush, you’ll get us thrown out and all before he gives us an answer!” he hissed.

“Sodding bugger, should’ve stayed in the Scrubs where ‘e belongs.” Eyes blazing, Chico slammed a foot against the wall. 

Doyle kept one hand on his friend’s chest, well aware that Chico could have easily fought him off if he had a mind to. Chico might be small but he was fierce and surprisingly strong. “Time and a place,” he whispered, feeling Chico’s ribs heaving under his palm.

“Little boy,” Eddie taunted, snorting inelegantly through his nose.

Chico surged forward, and Doyle shoved him more forcefully toward the door. “You’re out of here unless you can contain it!” Doyle warned, stabbing a stiffened finger at Chico’s chest. There was no sign of the affable, sweet natured Barnes. This was the street-wise lad who took on all comers and bested them. “Won’t help Sid.”

“’Elps me piece of mind, it does,” Chico muttered, crossing his arms. “Fucking minger.”

“You want leniency, you have to play nice,” Bodie said sternly to Eddie.

Eddie shrugged delicately, as if he weren’t cuffed to a table. “Stating the literal truth, yer Lordship. Didn’ you know ‘is name means little boy? Imagine, even the nuns didn’t give him a Christian name.”

“Spanish,” Bodie said deadpan. “Yeah, I speak the language.”

“Getting back to the subject at hand,” Doyle snarled. He had to play nice. Any sympathies he’d had for Ponce Eddie’s plight had fled in the face of the animosity between Eddie and Chico. Doyle had known the prisoner longer, but he liked Chico Barnes far better. “Our superior says we can offer you immunity from prosecution, and emigration to another country if you cough up information that gets us results— the recovery of the horses and the trainer.”

“In other words, put out, then leave England, sooner than later?” Eddie cocked his head with a snide smile, the long blond braid swinging lazily behind him. “I’d miss you so, Raymond, dear.”

“We need addresses, my lad,” Bodie said, perching one hip onto the side of the table, effectively shielding both Chico and Doyle. “Knowland and/or Bautista had better be to home or you lose your plea deal.”

Ponce Eddie shrugged elaborately as if denying all culpability. “I can’t recall each and every location mentioned over the last twenty-four hours, luv. I need a refresher.”

Doyle was ready for that. He dug a typewritten list out of his leather jacket pocket and handed it to Bodie. He didn’t need to read it again, he knew it by heart: five places they knew of for Everett Knowland. For Ignacio Bautista, only one in  
England. There wasn’t enough time to have taken Sid and the horses out of the country—at least Doyle didn’t think so.

“When we’re in London, we mostly stays at me flat on Edgewater Road,” Eddie said lazily, touching a finger to the list that Bodie placed on the table. “I expect you’ve already sussed that one out?”

Bodie nodded without a word.

“I’ll have to have the Paki woman in to clean again.” He sighed. “Your lot gets the fingerprint dust everywhere.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have any money when you got out of prison,” Doyle put in. “How’d you afford a flat in Edgewater?”

“Angel, it’s in a huge brick building, hardly private or anything.” Eddie flicked his fingers as if getting rid of something. “Ev helped, I will admit, although it’s in my name.”

“Sugar daddy paid for the farm in Glastonbury?” Chico taunted. He glanced at Doyle as if acknowledging that he was out of line. 

“And who are you living with these days, little boy?” Eddie’s eyes brightened with the duel.

“Enough of that!” Bodie snapped, clearly bristling with the job of stern cop. “Your Ev doesn’t seem to live anywhere. The addresses in London are warehouses. Our men went out to the Brighton flat early this morning, but it hasn’t been lived in in months. Covered in dust. You’ll need your cleaner there, as well.”

“I did so like the beach, too.” Eddie sighed. “You guarantee I’ll get me plane ticket off this island, to Canada or someplace remote and far away?” His façade slipped again—the abandoned child who was neither girl nor boy peeking through for a moment.

Doyle hardened his heart, no longer giving Eddie much compassion. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Eddie ducked his head, running his finger along the paper again. “Bautista has a place, I reckon, though I haven’t been there. Up north, Northampton? Where he planned to open a stable.”

“Under his own name?” Bodie demanded.

“He an’ Ev have a—“ He looked up, sucking on his bottom lip. “What you call that? A limited partnership sort o’ thing. B & K limited.”

“That’s it then,” Chico said urgently, banging on the door to bring the warder.

“Wait,” Bodie cautioned. “D’you know if Bautista is in the country?”

“Haven’t a clue, luv,” Eddie answered, directing his answer at Doyle, as usual. “All’s I know it that ‘e had in mind to be a trainer. But Ev’ an’ me was planning to take those great beasts into Columbia.” 

The door opened with a cringe-worthy screech that set Doyle’s already grated nerves on edge.

“One last word, Raymond luv,” Eddie said sensuously, curving a finger to draw him closer.

Debating whether to give Eddie the satisfaction, Doyle glanced over at Bodie. He simply shrugged. “I’ll just be a mo,” Doyle said, waiting until Bodie and Chico were in the hall. 

The warder pulled the door shut once more, leaving Doyle and the prisoner alone.

“Saw you looking at me chains.” Eddie’s smile was seductive and cold hearted, full of the urge to hurt. He wiggled his wrists to make the links clank against the table.

“Wanted to ensure that you were well restrained,” Doyle shot back. He regretted his impetuousness a moment later. Eddie could sense his discomfort—he always had. Was this gratuitous fawning merely a ploy to gain an ally or did he really have misplaced feelings for Doyle?

“You and ‘im, the dark, forceful one,” Eddie canted his head toward the door. “He ever put you in chains?”

 _Far too close for comfort._ Clenching his back teeth, Doyle forced a calm. “What is all this in aid of, Eddie? Why the come-on every time we meet?”

“Because every little girl believes in her Prince Charming, luv,” Eddie said very quietly and turned his head. 

~*~

Spitting blood out of his mouth, Sid rose very slowly. He’d been quite accustomed to pain when he was riding regularly. Every jockey was, but it had been long enough since a bad fall off a horse that he’d forgotten the wretchedness. He felt each bump and bruise far more than he used to. Perhaps it was old age? Even if he were still riding winners, he’d be close to retirement age for a jockey. 

_No matter._ Nothing to do but get up and keep moving forward. He braced his stump against the gate on the stall, looking straight at Faerie Lights. 

“You get us into all sorts of trouble, my girl,” he said tiredly. 

Outside, he could hear Knowland berating Alf and Joss, implying that they didn’t possess a single brain cell between them. The upshot was, Joss was left guarding the barn whilst Knowland and Alf went back to the main house. 

Exploring the barn, Sid discovered a small window outside the tack room. His back to the barn, Joss slouched gloomily against stone fence a few yards away, flat cap pushed down over his forehead. His pet Lugar was stuck into the front of his trousers. In the distance, Sid could see his other two captors walking up a path to an elegant manor, the sort favoured by moneyed country gents and the second sons of barons. Like the barn, it appeared to be well kept. Knowland must have paid a pretty penny for the place.

With nothing else to do but worry, he might as well make himself at home. In the past, he’d used work to ignore pain, today was no different. There were stalls enough for at least a dozen horses, but the only occupants were Syah and Faerie. The floors weren’t dirty but they hadn’t been swept recently and there wasn’t a morsel of grain or hay in the hay racks. Syah neighed as if reminding Sid he needed feeding.

Sid found sacks of grain and two bales of hay. Not much, but it would do. Unable to curl all his fingers around the rake, getting the hay to the horses took longer than it should have, but he managed.

He’d _always_ s managed, all his life. The activity kept him from worrying about Chico for a goodly while.

The tack room was packed with every single sort of rope or leather needed to secure or ride on a horse—despite the lack horses. Curious, that—had Knowland really planned to buy more? Was that what the emeralds were for? There were brushes, curry combs and hoof picks enough for a dozen animals. 

A door next to the tack room proved to be a small bedsit for some stable lad required to stay the night with the non-existent horses. The miniscule kitchen contained a tiny fridge, complete with an ice tray, as well as an electric kettle and a box of PG tips. Sid didn’t concern himself that the tea bags might have been bought in the 1970s. There were four chipped tea mugs on another shelf across from a square table and two chairs.

After rooting around a bit more, he found a bottle of paracetamol in a drawer and a tin of sardines. Not his favourite by half, but full of protein and vitamins. Downing the tablets, Sid ate the oily fish whilst brewing a pot of tea, contemplating how to pry the ice out of the tray with his sausage shaped fingers.

Luckily, the thumb and forefinger were only bruised, and he awkwardly extracted a few cubes. Wrapping them in a tea towel, Sid sat on a bale opposite Syrah and Faerie as they munched their hay. Alternating sips of tea and balancing the ice pack on his swollen fingers, he began to feel nearly human again.

Next task, groom the horses. They were, like Sid, liberally splashed with mud from the melee at his place. His blue jumper had dried misshapen and grimy. Syah’s dark colour hid much of the mud but Faerie’s beautiful white coat was so dirty she resembled a flea-bitten grey.

Outside, the sudden clatter roar of an engine startled all three inhabitants of the barn. Faerie didn’t bolt, thank God, but she stomped her hooves restlessly. Syah neighed unhappily, ears back. 

Sid dashed to the window in time to see a blue and silver helicopter rising above the roof of the manor house in the distance. Now where was that going? Was Knowland leaving? He could still see Joss sitting on the wall, although he was holding his Lugar at the ready as if expecting Sid to come bursting out. Now there was an idea…albeit quite dangerous. 

Gathering up curry comb, brush and hose, Sid began to clean Faerie, his brain going in five different directions. He needed to focus, and the familiar rhythm of combing horse hair helped, even with an awkward grip of the brush. Faerie nickered softly, turning to look over her shoulder at him. Leaning his head against her neck, Sid breathed in the warm scent of horse. He wanted desperately to find the peace this usually brought him. 

Syah craned his head over the half wall separating the two horses, nuzzling against Sid’s truncated arm. That didn’t negate the anger and resentment against any number of causes—chief amongst them Knowland and his merry band of men—overwhelming him. He was alone and humiliated without his left hand. This felt like those first bleak months after the injury that had cost him his career in horseracing. 

Attempting to fight off the depression, Sid conjured up Chico’s face: the sunny smile, the cheerful, bright curls. How long? How long had it taken Chico to realise Sid was missing? Had he lingered at the pub? It was two in the afternoon now; surely Chico had alerted CI5. 

What about the Polaroid photo Knowland had taken? Was that to be a ransom note of sorts? Barter one man—and two horses, not to mention the emeralds, for another? Who was this Eddie?

As much as he liked imagining his lover riding up on a white charger—no, make that a motorbike with shining chrome, Sid knew he’d best work out his own escape. If nothing else, he certainly had a white horse. And a black one. 

The painkiller had been marginally effective on his sausage fingers. Holding the brush hurt as he smoothed it over Faerie’s withers, but the pain proved he was alive and could fight back. Faerie snorted, her skin quivering as if she were ticklish. She needed exercise; both of them did. Sid had always ridden, even after his accident. Certainly not morning trots at five am as he’d done at age sixteen, but every few days he still felt the call to mount a horse and ride as fast as possible. 

What if? Could he simply ride one of the horses out, leading the other behind him? How far would they get? Or was it a fool’s errand, guaranteed to get himself killed?

Faerie and Syah were gleaming when Sid finished his chores—and he felt even more grotty than before. He should wash up, splash water on his face and hand. Toting the grooming supplies back to the tack room, he noticed a small box marked with a red cross shoved behind a box of lice and flea medicine. First aid? Might be a good idea to splint his fingers, if possible, or put a plaster on the bloody scrapes on his knuckles. 

Opening the box by pushing up with his thumb, he gazed at the meagre contents. No plasters nor antiseptic. Not even a lolly stick to tape to his finger. But there was equine aspirin powder and—Sid almost laughed, wondering if he’d found a solution for his dilemma—ketamine.

~*~

“Sir.” Bodie grabbed the chair across from Cowley’s desk while his companions found places to perch. Doyle draped over his favourite bookcase and Chico took up residence against the drinks trolley. 

“You’ve spoken with this Edmund Pickup again?” Cowley asked expectantly, surveying the three of them. “This is the third interrogation. Have you uncovered anything more that we can use to find Halley?”

Doyle straightened, right hand squeezing his left wrist. Bodie watched surreptitiously. Why was Doyle clutching the metal chain around his wrist so tightly? Usually, the sight of the bracelet aroused Bodie, but Doyle’s unconscious tension was worrisome.

“Eddie claims that Bautista has a stable up in Northampton,” Doyle explained, “where he had ideas of becoming a trainer. He purchased the property under the name B&K Limited, as in Bautista and Knowland, but we don’t know the exact location of the place.”

“This Pickup still wants to emigrate if he is released from charges in exchange for giving up his partners?” Cowley folded his arms over his chest.

“He does, and if this pans out into actual fact, I say we let the git leave Britain,” Bodie answered. 

“If any other country will take ‘im,” Chico said sourly, scowling.

Cowley stared at Barnes, clearly surprised at his reaction. 

“Turns out our Chico knew Ponce Eddie as a lad,” Doyle explained with a glance at Chico. Barnes ducked his head without looking at Doyle.

Bodie had been feeling tension from Doyle all day, and it wasn’t simply because Halley was missing. Was this all to do with the hostility between him and Eddie?

“We’re going on the assumption that Knowland has Halley holed up at this stable,” Bodie added.

“Facts, man, are the only currency I take stock in.” Cowley frowned, tapping the ear piece of his spectacles on a file. “However, we should be able trace this B&K Limited and find out its public holdings. May take a few hours, but it’s possible.”

“Where do we start?” Chico demanded. “Sid’s been missing these last six hours, by my reckoning, if not longer. Wot if—“ He broke off violently, his blue eyes bright with anger. He swallowed, adam’s apple quivering.

“Hey—“ Doyle started when there was a rap on the door.

“Come, Betty,” Cowley called out.

“Mr Cowley, sir, there’s been a delivery.” Betty walked in carrying an envelope.

“Doesn’t the post usually arrive in the morning?” Doyle asked.

“Yes.” Cowley stood grimly and took the envelope, examining the front.

“Addressed to the head of CI5, includes the correct street number,” Bodie read over Cowley’s shoulder as Doyle and Chico moved closer. 

“No lit’le pictures of Queen Liz,” Chico added sarcastically. “Not exactly your average mail.”

“As I mentioned, delivery,” Betty stressed when Cowley glanced up at her. “A courier arrived less than five minutes ago, from Quick-ee Delivers. I took his particulars, such as they are, and the security guard in the lobby most certainly got a better look at him arriving and leaving. However, I can’t provide an accurate description beyond approximately six feet and Caucasian. He was wearing black gloves, sunglasses, and a cap.”

“Bugger!” Chico slammed his left fist into his right palm.

“Hey,” Doyle said, nudging him with his elbow. “This is our stomping ground, we can do this and still have Sid home in time for…possibly… late tea.”

Chico nodded, clearly not mollified.

“Excellent work, Betty!” Cowley said, using a letter opener to slit the top of the envelope. 

Bodie had a bad feeling about the contents—as he was sure the rest of them did. This had all the signs of a ransom demand. It seemed almost impossible that yesterday, he and Doyle had been bemoaning physical labour in the heat and looking forward to some kinky play once they’d catalogued the stolen booty. He’d long ago stopped trying to anticipate the outcome of investigations—too much could happen at a moment’s notice—but this case ranked high with the unexpected.

Cowley dumped the contents onto his desk: a Polaroid of Sid Halley looking rough, and an awkwardly written note. In block letters, it read, “Return Ed Pickup and the emeralds or Halley looses his other hand and his feet. We will contact CI5 at midnight tonight.”

Betty gasped, chewing on her bottom lip. “Just seven hours.”

“Damn,” Doyle whispered, moving in front of Chico as if trying to prevent him from seeing the photo.

Bodie figured that was far too late. Chico reached for the picture with a trembling hand, but Cowley blocked his move by two fingers on Barnes’ wrist.

“Laddie, we’ll need to check this for prints. Let’s leave it be, for now,” he said gently. “Betty, get the best researchers onto B&K limited. We need the information now.”

“Particularly a property in Northampton,” Bodie added, “with stables.” He glanced at Doyle, recalling the myriad times his own partner had been abducted. So far, they’d always managed to come out all right in the end. For both Chico and Sid’s sakes, he hoped this would be no different.

“Right away!” Betty said, scurrying out.

“Been bunged about good n’ proper, ‘e has,” Chico said, never taking his eyes off Sid’s photo. “An’ ‘es lying in straw—with an ‘orse’s leg in the background.”

“Well spotted.” Cowley nodded, sliding on his glasses to examine the photo and note more closely.

“Syah. The black one,” Bodie put in, for Cowley’s benefit. 

“Least ‘e’s with the ‘orses,” Chico said quietly, still looking at the picture as if memorising every bump and bruise on Sid’s face. “That’ll be a comfort to ‘im.”

“Seems that Knowland cares far more for Eddie than Eddie does for Knowland.” Doyle paced the length of the room, walking off excess energy by the looks of it. “He told me that Everett was all right, but I doubt he loves him.”

“Could be an awkward predicament,” Cowley mused. “Let me put a call into Sir Radcliffe Cawfield at Companies House. He’ll have the most recent information on a limited company. We may be able to cut through red tape immediately and uncover their holdings.”

Chico inhaled noisily, clearing holding in all manner of emotion. “How long? How’ll we get to Sid? Northampton’s at least an hour from here.”

Bodie felt for him. The not knowing was the worst, the fear and worry for the missing loved one gnawing at the guts, threatening to eat him alive. “Sir? Will there be a helicopter available?”

“Just so, 3.7.” Cowley reached for the phone.

Bodie turned to give him privacy, planning to go back to his office. There were grasses he could call, who had their fingers to the pulse of the street.

“I’m going for a run, then,” Chico said, scooting out the door. He was gulping air as if he’d already done a marathon. “I got to get out of me ‘ead for a bit. Training for another notch on me black belt, aren’t I?”

Doyle glanced at Bodie, questions in his eyes. Bodie inclined his head, in total agreement that Chico should not be alone.

“I need to get back into the regime, as well. I’ll run with you,” Doyle said, putting a hand on his arm. 

“Meet you out front.” Chico bounced on his toes and jogged out of the building as if the Baskerville hounds were after him.

Pulling Doyle aside, Bodie felt as if electric sparked between them. Doyle responded so naturally to him. “Want me to come with you?” 

“Two black belts between Chico n’me, remember?” Doyle dredged up half a smile. “Sid’d be better served by you sussing out where he is.”

“Sweet talker.” Bodie smacked him gently on the back of the head as Doyle went out the door. “Stay within r/t range. If we get a hit, I’ll swing ‘round and pick you up.”

~*~

Felt like Bodie had knocked something lose in his brain—maybe it was his wits. Suddenly, random issues seemed to sort themselves out, providing clarity and insight. Doyle wanted Bodie’s domination exactly because it got him out of his head. In the past, exercise had always helped, because he could block thoughts completely while he was concentrating on a difficult kata or running fast. Problem was, the anxieties were still lurking, waiting until he was going to sleep or all alone to overwhelm.

Somehow, kneeling in front of Bodie trounced all his apprehensions and uncertainties about himself and the job. He’d had doubts about submission only because he feared losing his autonomy. That had never happened. Not with Bodie. With Bodie, he had strength and balance. Eddie’s taunts and innuendoes, combined with excessive fawning were off-putting in the extreme. He and Eddie weren’t alike, not even close.

Doyle took the stairs to the lobby, looking around for his friend. Didn’t find him until he went all the way outside.

Chico was propping up CI5 headquarters, smoking a hand-rolled fag. He took a long, slow drag on the cigarette, peering at Doyle. “You ‘ad ‘til I finished my smoke,” Chico said tightly, “then I was off.”

“Thanks for waiting.” Doyle gave him a quick once over, worried at Chico’s brittle facade. Chico rarely lit up: Halley was the smoker of the two of them. He was using the cigarette to stay connected to his lover, which Doyle completely understood. Even so, he waved a hand through the blue-grey haze. “Seems to defeat the purpose right before a run.”

“Makes it all wurf the effort, don’t it?” Chico said without his usual joie-de-vivre. He flicked the butt into the street. It landed in a puddle, the embers hissing and steaming. 

“Where to? A jog around the neighbourhood or d’you have something specific in mind?”

“Barnes Street,” Chico said, immediately going left. 

He was fast, his trainers barely hitting the pavement before he was at the next turning on the road. Doyle dashed after him, mentally calculating their course. Not five miles, if they were going absolutely straight through London. Of course, that wasn’t possible. The city was known for its hidden closes, meandering streets and sudden changes of road names. Hard to guess which route Chico would choose. The distance wasn’t much, Doyle had run far longer, but the destination was telling. Chico was running home.

He’d spent the last few months out in the country, away from much of what he was familiar with, and now in a crisis, he was headed for where he’d grown up. Catching up to his friend, Doyle considered another angle. Perhaps, Chico was searching for answers? Would locals in the area know about Ponce Eddie?

Doyle put his head down, letting the rhythmic plod of his feet drive everything out of his brain so he could just be.

They ran in silence for several miles, dodging ubiquitous black cabs, double decker buses and one memorable near miss with an American tourist clearly unused to driving on the left. Chico barely managed to slip out of the way of the man’s hire car, leaping onto the kerb with only an inch to spare. The American’s wife had her head out the window, clutching a map gruesomely illustrated with a coloured sketch of Mary Anne Nichols and Elizabeth Stride.

“Probably finks ‘e’ll solve the Ripper case after all these years,” Chico muttered, rubbing his side. Sweat slicked his black and yellow jersey, emblazoned with the logo of the London Ravens, an American style football team. He leaned against the entrance to the Algate East tube station, staring up at the sign for Whitechapel High Street.

“Fancy a pint?” Doyle asked, spying a pub down the road. 

Chico breathed in the petrol fumed air and coughed, shaking his head. “I know a place, just a bit farther.”

“An old favourite?” 

“You might say that.” Chico gave him a brief smile that was more like a grimace and set off again. 

They ran down Commercial Road, stopping at White Horse Road. A few doors down was a brightly lit pub, The White Swan. Doyle had heard of the place. It was a gay bar. 

Chico looked up at Doyle, uncharacteristically serious, with a bleak expression on his face. “This was me old stomping ground.”

Doyle nodded. His own youth had been pretty hardscrabble: father abusive when drunk, which was more often than not, and too many sisters for his overworked mother to tend to. As the youngest, Doyle would escape to the streets when possible, but he’d been smacked good by his father many a night. Still, the old man had managed to provide enough to get by. The Doyle family had never been in quite the dire straits as the area where Chico was raised. Little wonder he’d learned to fight and steal early on. 

Chico walked across White Horse Road toward Barnes Street. A Catholic church in need of repair occupied most of one side of the street, with a convent building just beyond. Directly opposite was a police station. Doyle recalled coordinating with that squad on a drugs case when he was a copper. 

“Raised there.” Chico thrust his chin at the church. “Had me first pint there.” The White Swan. “Yeah, Eddie were my first…wotever.” He shrugged, face unreadable, but the bent of his shoulders evoked unmistakable misery. “Sid don’t ‘ave to know, does he?” He walked over to St Michael’s, running a hand along the stone as if he knew every nook and cranny.

“How old were you?” Doyle asked softly, leaning against the rough wall so that Chico had to turn to hear him. Even with the occasional passers-by at Chico’s back, he and Chico could speak relatively privately.

“Old enough,” Chico said without emotion.

Doyle suspected strongly that he was lying, but didn’t force the issue.

“Eddie were right,” Chico said, glancing around as if seeing the rundown buildings with new eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his forehead, grimacing. “I was called Lit’le Boy Barnes—didn’t never ‘ave nuffin of me own. The nun who found me spoke Spanish, din’ she? Sisters gave me a Christian name when they baptised me, but no-one ever used it. Just Chico. Wore the cast-offs from the older boys, and passed ‘em along to the ones who came after me.” He took a step back, raising his eyes to a large stained glass window with a significant crack along one side, and crossed himself. “They was good to me here. I loved Sister Margarite and the rest of the ol’blisters, but I wanted someone t’call me own. Sid come along, and he were mine, right from the start.”

_Just like Bodie._

“You proved you could succeed, Chico,” Doyle said. “You’re a black belt, a private investigator—“

“I got the judo skills on me own. Fightin’ came natural-like, but wouldn’t’ve done the rest without Sid.” Chico surveyed the street, this time with a clear indication that he was looking for someone. “His ex father in law pushed ‘im into investigating a race track bein’ sabotaged, an’ Sid roped me into ‘elping ‘im. The rest, as they say, is history.” He bore down hard on the last H. 

“And you’re waiting for a grass,” Doyle guessed, the abrupt change of subject almost welcome.

“You remember me talking ‘bout Milty Fogg last year, when we was investigating the jockey murdered at Kempton Park?” Chico headed back to the corner, going around onto Commercial again

“He the bloke worked for Belmonti?” Doyle asked, once again having to hurry to keep up with Chico. For a little scrapper, he could leg it.

“Yeah. He was one of the Barnes boys, as well. Sickly git, a brick short of a load, if you ask me.” Chico stopped in front of The White Swan, running a hand through his sweaty, tousled curls. That did nothing to put them to order, but he seemed satisfied. He opened the door.

~*~

Was coming back here a mistake? Chico stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior. He felt sick with worry about Sid, and the stink of spilled beer didn’t help. Barnes Street was part of his heart, yet it brought out the worst in him. What would have happened if he’d never left the vicinity for the wider world? Would he have been sucked into a life of crime like Eddie and Milty? His own teen-year burglaries paled in comparison to their offenses. He’d never done much more than break into a locked building for the risk factor involved. The adrenalin rush whilst picking a lock, the excitement of getting inside and skirting the law had been his drug of choice. About that same year, he discovered that the structure and discipline of martial arts gave him equal adrenalin, without the danger.

He should have gone to see Sister Margarite straight away, instead of heading into the pub. Except, he wanted to find Milty. The good sister would have plied him with tea and freshly baked ginger biscuits, all the while worrying over her misguided lambs’ souls. He didn’t have that kind of time.

Every moment, every tick of his watch brought them closer to when Knowland threatened to cut off Sid’s other hand--and feet. Chico could almost feel the earth slowly rotating, snatching away time. He needed to be useful to CI-5, to help find Sid. The thought of life without him scared Chico silly. If he were on his own, without the solid anchor of Sid Halley, Barnes Street would swallow him whole.

The run had cleared the cobwebs from his brain, let him tease out ideas and objectives. This was the sort of case Sid thrived on, damn him. Chico was the leg man: he generally questioned blokes in pubs or stables and brought the info back to Sid to be dissected and fit into the whole picture. Damn Sid for getting his fool self kidnapped.

Which was why Chico had to find Milty. Milty had connections—and if anyone knew about Knowland, it would be Belmonti. They were rivals, right? If Chico could persuade Belmonti to give up Knowland, maybe just maybe—

“Chico?” Doyle said into his ear. “I’ll get us a coupla pints. You locate your mate, yeah?”

That brought him back to earth with a jolt. Chico nodded, taking in the room. He peered into shadowy corners and around the curve of the bar. As usual, there was an abundance of leather visible on those drinking or dancing to the tinny juke box. Blokes holding hands, not even trying to hide their affection. 

Doyle walked over to put in an order with old Agatha. She’d been pulling beer and pouring spirits for the regulars for longer than Chico had been alive. She never looked any different: hair piled high in a huge beehive, cat’s eye glasses hung on a chain and a flowered housedress that did nothing to hide her bulk. She mothered every boy—and the occasional girl—who came into The White Swan.

Chico flicked his eyes past familiar faces crowded around the darts and snooker, finally spotting a skinny, weaselly faced git with a hunch on his left shoulder near the back. Milty.

Doyle had his fingers hooked around three pints. Good man, he’d anticipated Chico’s thoughts exactly. Ply Fogg with beer. 

Inclining his head toward their prey, Chico threaded through the crowd watching a horserace at Lingfield Park on the telly. He’d been to so many tracks with Sid that he could recognise a race course as easily as an experienced jockey. The volume was low, but Chico could just make out the announcer calling out the names of the horses: “Breadwinner is coming up fast on Pride of Yorkshire’s left and Cupn’saucer’s third…”

“Milty, me old son,” Chico greeted when he’d reached the table in the farthest corner of the room. “Killing time?”

“C-chico!” Milty stared at him, picking nervously at a bloody cuticle on his right hand, his entire body quivering slightly as if he had his own private wind. 

Feeling Doyle come around to block Milty from escaping, Chico relaxed marginally. He knew how to work this. Pretend Doyle was Sid, draw on experience, old habits. Up close, Milty looked more than rough, he looked ill.

“Milty, visited the good sister lately?” Chico asked as jovially as possible. He grabbed two of the glasses Doyle clanked onto the table. “Thought I’d give ‘er a ring.”

“H-hey, no I…” Milty’s always shifty eyes both focussed on the beer and he brightened. He snuffled, latching onto the glass.

“Drink up,” Doyle offered. “I’m Ray, friend of Chico’s.”

Milty tried to smile, but it came out all wrong, nasty looking, even after he’d had a fortifying swallow of beer. “What brings you out ‘ere, Chico?” he asked finally.

“Showin’ me new mate the old stomping grounds,” Chico answered. He’d never felt this awkward, this unbalanced, as if he didn’t have enough hands—or feet. “Doyle needs a bit of employment, I reckon. A word in the right ear. Got certain skills, if you catch me meaning.”

“Oh, yeah, uh—“ Milty almost got the knack of smiling but lost the impetus half way through and rubbed frantically at his nose, sniffing. “Right, I’d need—uh—some incentive…”

 _This was bloody wrong_. Milty had always been feeble minded, but Chico had never seen him so poorly.

“Milt,” Doyle said softly, taking a fiver out of his wallet. “How long since you had a snort?”

“Oi!” Milty protested, staring greedily at the money. “I’m not—“

“Withdrawing?” Doyle asked. “Strung out?”

Clued in to Fogg’s deterioration, Chico felt like an idiot. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a friend coming off a high. He’d smoked dope on occasion, but never tried the more addicting drugs. He’d always preferred the natural high from squaring off against a well matched opponent in the dojo. If this was the result of addiction, he was glad he’d stayed away. “What’re you usin’?” he asked.

Milty pressed his lips together as if not inclined to answer, but after another long drink of beer, he sighed. “I were off for a long time, but lately, this ‘ere crack be amazing, innit? Such a rush.”

“Where’re you getting it from?” Doyle kept his hand firmly on the five pound note, keeping the money tantalizingly out of Milty’s reach. “Got a source?”

“You tried crack?” Milty asked plaintively. “It’s that intense, it is. Can’t beat it, but me mate Rick won’t give me no more until I pays up. The price is higher, ‘e says the product’s gone scarce t’day.” He worried the cuticle on his finger, biting the dangling skin with yellow, chipped teeth.

Doyle caught Chico’s eye with a slight nod. _Ah_ , the puzzle pieces were beginning to fit into place. Yesterday, CI5 had confiscated three different warehouses filled with illegal drugs, much of it crack meant for street sales. No wonder Milty was hurting. 

“Can’t get you more crack, but we’d be able to help—“ Doyle said sympathetically, adding a tenner to the five, “get you off the street, per’aps into a doctor’s care if you’d see fit to steer us toward someone higher up in the chain of command.”

“Rick?” Milty asked stupidly, his hand shaking when he clasped the beer to drink down the last. 

“He’s low level,” Doyle answered. “Someone with authority.”

“Tol’ me about your gov’nor, didn’t you?” Chico put in smoothly. “We’ve information worth a fortune if ‘e could give us a few minutes of time.”

“Oh!” Milty stared down at the money inches from his hand and then at his empty glass, clearly trying to use fried brain cells. “Belmonti?”

Doyle smiled like a cat with a bowlful of fresh cream. “How do you get touch with him? Blower?”

“Got ‘is number, I do!” Milty cried as if he’d just have a bright idea. “Cameron does the go-between, but ‘e talks directly to Belmonti.”

“Terrific!” Doyle shoved the money under Milty’s dirty fingers, but kept hold of one end. “You ring him, the jam and honey’s yours.”

Chico was impressed. He hadn’t thought they’d get something that quickly. The next hurdle was if Belmonti would take their call. Would he know anything? Chico downed his own beer to drown the mental image of a one handed Sid screaming in pain as his right hand was sawed off. Bile rose in his throat, all wrong with the strong taste of the Newcastle. Chico shuddered, watching Milty gather himself together to walk—more like stumble—over to the telephone on the end of the bar. Agatha had always allowed patrons to use that phone.

Milty lifted the receiver and spoke for a few moments. On the telly, an elegant grey went over a hurdle a good length in front of the rest of the pack at Lingfield, prompting loud cheering from the men at the bar. Chico couldn’t hear a thing.

“This is a long shot,” Doyle said, staring pensively at the television.

“You mean Aristotle, there,” Chico tilted his head at the televised horse thundering toward a wooden obstacle, “Or that Belmonti would give us the time of day?” 

Doyle smiled on only one side, clearly cynical. “I was thinkin’ of Belmonti, but Aristotle’s not won a race in…” He was interrupted by the strident bleep from his R/T. “4.5 here,” he answered.

“3.7,” Bodie said, static distorting his voice. “Where are you?”

“Limehouse,” Doyle responded, holding the R/T close to his mouth. “Any word on Northampton?”

“More complicated than first anticipated,” Bodie explained.

Chico saw Milty wave urgently to get their attention and nudged Doyle. “Fink we got some action.”

“You talk to him,” Doyle said.

“Me?” Chico asked, aghast. Not in his job description. He didn’t do negotiations. That was Sid’s department, or in this case, CI5’s.

“You know what we need.” Doyle gave him a shove that propelled him out of his chair. “Plus—“

Chico didn’t have to hear the other reason. He sounded more like Milty, more like the sort who’d be from Limehouse, than Doyle did. Belmonti’s bagman, this Cameron, would be less suspicious that he was being set up.

The phone call was over in moments. With Milty, chewing nervously on his cuticles, Chico gave the gruff voiced Cameron a quick rundown of their situation. He left out any involvement with a government agency and stressed that with Knowland and his backers out of the way, Belmonti would have a clear field to sell their wares. All he wanted was the address of Bautista and Knowland’s place up north.

Very much in need of another beer, Chico dropped heavily into his chair. His heart was pounding, adrenalin coursing through his veins as if he’d just been through a prolonged Judo match. He didn’t often send a prayer God’s way —he’d left that behind when he walked away from Barnes Street--but just this once, he asked for a blessing on Sid Halley. And Belmonti, for good measure.

Doyle had resupplied pints all around, plus jellied eels and crisps. He glanced at Chico, sipping his beer.

“Horse’s out of the starting gate, too early to tell if ‘e’ll make it over the first hurdle,” Chico answered the unspoken question, realising he’d used a metaphor worthy of his missing partner. “He’ll ring us back with further details.”

Milty grabbed a handful of crisps, stuffing them into his mouth with sharp crunching sounds.

“Bodie says B&K Limited is packed with smaller private companies, all over the country,” Doyle said. “It’ll take hours to uncover all their properties and holdings.”

“Bugger,” Chico said explosively, no longer in the mood for food or even drink. What was Sid doing right then? Was he hurt?

~*~

Sid paused in his project, waiting as the now familiar sound of the helicopter roared over the roof of his barn prison. A minute or two later, he heard the unmistakable chucka-chucka of the blades slowing down as it landed—presumably in front of the estate where it had taken off from.

Was this a good sign, or a bad one? Only time would tell, and he couldn’t let that distract him from work. Getting the Ketamine into a form he could use had been more difficult than he’d anticipated. Luckily, he’d had a lot of time on his hand.

Doing anything one-handed was always tiresome; particularly something he’d never done before. Having two broken fingers didn’t help matters, but he ignored the pain and pressed on. The old fashioned syringe included with the vial of Ketamine had come complete with a long metal needle. Getting the tranquilliser out was the most cumbersome because he couldn’t hold onto the vial and stick the needle into the small port simultaneously, as two handed people could. Even lying it on its side had proved problematic, since the vial had a tendency to roll.

Finally, he’d aspirated all the tranquilliser into the syringe. He’d carefully coated the insides of three mugs, leaving them to dry on the sideboard whilst he boiled more water in the electric kettle. His whole right hand was grossly swollen and sore. Sid treated himself to two more paracetamols and sipped his tea, looking out the window. 

Joss was clearly bored. Earlier, he’d taken to shooting at a collection of old bottles he must have filched from the rubbish bins; each blast of the pistol had sent a shudder up Sid’s spine. Faerie Lights hadn’t liked the noise at all. She’d spent the entire target practice turning restlessly in her stall, neighing shrilly. Syah’s calming influence hadn’t helped as much as Sid had hoped. 

Once the helicopter returned, Joss returned to his perch on the wall, looking toward the house expectantly.

His persistence paid off. After a while, Alf came down the path with a carrier bag. He unloaded two small takeaway cartons for Joss, chatting with him. 

Sid could smell the curry from his window and his belly rumbled hopefully. “Oi!” he called. No point in them ignoring him, they were the reason he was here. “I’ve got tea. Come over and have a cup.”

Alf stared at him, frowning. He glanced at his partner. Joss nodded. 

“Might as well.”

Sid grinned for the first time since early morning and saluted his horses. “Faerie, Syah, we may have a way out, yet.”

~*~

Bodie rubbed his eyes. He’d been going through the papers found with the horses, as well as other papers confiscated in the recent raids on Knowland’s warehouses for any mention of Northampton. Most of these had already been perused by the blokes in research but Bodie was intent on one particular address, thus another go. All documents written in Persian had been separated out, leaving Bodie with a huge stack in English. Most were memos from Knowland to associates discussing the shipping of the horses and other contraband. Not much about cocaine. There were invoices, some bank records and myriad other correspondence such as any business would have.

CI5 had also obtained a court order to search Bautista’s place on Victoria Road. Anson and McCabe had just returned with reams of evidence. Luckily for Bodie, the latter was in Spanish. He knew enough to order food in Spain but did not have the fluency to read through the lot.

Betty, bless her, spoke the language and shared the table, sitting across from Bodie. She was hunched over an official looking document with the seal of Columbia: an eagle perched on top of a shield with two cornucopias spilling out money and food, plus what appeared to be a red gnome’s cap rising from the sea. 

Bodie stared at the bizarre seal, blinking away some of his weariness, and selected another paper from his stack. Jax and Murphy sat at adjoining desks, buried up to their ears in papers. Across the hall, the research department was attacking the matter via the computer. Nearly all available employees working with one goal.

So far, zilch.

Time passed extremely slowly. The only sound was the occasional rustle of paper. Bodie thought his head would explode very soon, and images of Ray kept intruding. First, Ray’s arse, the tight jeans with the eye catching patch on the rear. Then more erotic fare: Ray peeling out of those jeans, his chest already bare. Ray kneeling, head ducked under, his neck naked and vulnerable except for a few stray curls.

“Ah,” Betty spoke up. “I may have found something.”

Bodie gasped, torn out of his daydream, wincing from the crick in his back. And the ache in his groin. “What?”

The other two agents looked like lost dogs hoping for a bone.

“A personal letter,” she said, holding up a page covered in black spidery cursive. “Mentions a potential property on Willingborough Road and that it is near the race course beside the university.”

“Good show, my lady!” Bodie grabbed the sheath of paper as though he could read more than rudimentary Spanish. He made out the name Everett in the salutation and Ignacio at the close of the letter.

“All we need now is a ruddy map,” McCabe said, looking far happier than he’d had moments before. 

“Too bad he didn’t include which university it was,” Bodie agreed. “But CI5 has loads of maps. Go find one, of the Northampton area.” He felt it in his bones. This was the clue they’d been searching for. As long as they got to Sid Halley in time.

It was six pm—only six hours left. He picked up the R/T to contact Doyle

~*~

The Lingfield races were over and the BBC news was playing with the volume off. None of the pub customers cared about military operations in India. 

Doyle idly observed a good-looking couple going at it hot and heavy at the table opposite. Two men, without a care whether anyone saw them kissing. He and Bodie could never indulge in such a public display without censor. 

Chico had been nursing a beer, with one hand on the blower, for the last half hour. He sat stiffly, as if any stray movement would destroy his slender hope.

The call, when it came, was short and to the point. Doyle put his head against Chico’s, sharing the telephone.

“Belmonti’s got the London connection free an’ clear?” a gruff voice announced without preamble.

Manchester accent, Doyle identified, starting a mental file on Belmonti’s associate Cameron. Never know when that might come in handy. And he’d got the actual number from Milty. That was even more of a coup— not to mention amazing, given Milty’s state of withdrawal. 

Doyle prodded Chico to get him to respond. 

“Yeah. Police’ll be closing in on Knowland wif all speed,” Chico assured, staring at Doyle with wide eyes. “Yer competition vanishes in an instant.”

“If Mr Belmonti finds out Milty’s steered us wrong, there’ll be hell to pay,” Cameron growled. 

“No worries, mate. All taken care of,” Chico said as if he hadn’t a care in the world on that subject. In fact, his face was drained of colour in the dim lighting of the pub.

“Kennington House, Willingborough Road, Ecton. Do not contact us again regarding this matter.”

The call cut off abruptly. Chico exhaled violently, clenching both fists. “How fast can we get there?”

“As soon as Cowley gets his whirlybird in the air,” Doyle answered, keying the button on the R/T.

Bodie responded so quickly he must have had his R/T in hand. “Ray?”

Not 4.5 nor the more formal Doyle. Bodie using his given name sent a buzz straight to Doyle’s groin. He pressed the metal links of the bracelet on his left wrist against the wall behind him, feeling the sharp bite of pain like a promise of more to come.

“We’ve got—“ he and Bodie spoke at exactly the same moment. 

“An address!” Doyle forged ahead, speaking over his partner. Had they been in a dominant/submissive session, Bodie could have punished him for such insubordination. 

As it was, Bodie cheered. “Brilliant. We only managed to find the street, not the actual house,” Bodie cried. “I’ll bring the Capri around, fetch you and Barnes.”

Chico had a nervous, expectant look in his eyes. He grabbed Doyle’s wrist, leaning into the R/T. “Bodie, mate, bring our boy Sid’s arm. I think he’ll ‘ave need of it.”

“We’ll be waiting at The White Swan,” Doyle told him with a gladdened heart. They could do this—just as Bodie had promised. Rescue Sid Halley in time for a—very—late tea.

“Milty.” Chico sat down beside his old friend. “You scurry on up to Sister Margarite, yeah? Can you make it that far?”

“I’m that tired, I am, Chico,” Milty tapped his breastbone, his narrow face haggard. “Me ‘eart’s galloping a mile a minute.”

“Chico, traffic the way it is in mid-London, we have time to walk him over there and still be waiting on Bodie,” Doyle said quietly. After the fact, he had qualms about using Milty’s connections so blatantly. What if Belmonti came after him? Doyle couldn’t bear the stain on his conscience if he had placed this hapless victim in harm’s way. At least, at the convent, he’d have nuns looking after him.

They whisked him down the street and out of sight without difficulty. Doyle was mildly amused at Chico’s relief that Sister Margarite was away ministering to the indigent. Apparently, he didn’t want to spare time reminiscing with his foster mother. A very young postulant with wide brown eyes and coffee coloured skin promised to nurse Milty until the older nun returned. 

The familiar Capri was flying down Commercial Road when Doyle and Chico made it to the corner. Bodie pulled the car to the kerb with a scream of the brakes.

“Transport’s waiting at the usual spot,” Bodie announced breathlessly as Chico and Doyle slid into the car.

“We’ll be in the air in fifteen,” Doyle predicted over his shoulder to Chico in the backseat. 

Sid’s plastic arm lay on the upholstery next to Chico’s knee. He placed one hand protectively over his partner’s appendage. “It’s still quite a distance to North’ampton.”

Chico needed something to get his mind off Halley’s situation. Doyle was well aware that if he were in Chico’s shoes, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about Bodie. He glanced at his own partner, catching Bodie’s eyes. They were thinking the same thing, as often happened, and a wave of love swept through Doyle that had nothing to do with submission or sexual desire. Bodie was, for all his rough edges and pretence at being a hardened mercenary, a very decent man.

“Chico, you were raised with both Milty and Ponce Eddie?” Doyle asked, twisting around so he could see Barnes. He had an idea that would take care of the both of them, and get them out of Chico’s hair.

“Yeah.”

“They get along?” 

Chico lost the pinched tension with a sarcastic laugh. “Not so’s you’d notice. Mind you, prob’ly been years since they had words.”

“I was thinking that our Eddie might enjoy having an old mate as a travelling companion,” Doyle suggested.

In the driver’s seat, Bodie guffawed, pounding his palm on the steering wheel. 

“That’s inspired, that is,” Chico said. “And you’re barking mad if you think Eddie will go along with it.”

“He’ll have to; it’ll be a stipulation of his release,” Doyle said, crossing his fingers that Cowley would agree.

~*~ 

“Keep your knickers on, ‘Alley,” Alf said, walking down the slope to the barn, holding the carry bag aloft. “Got somethin’ for you, as well. Can’t let the famous jockey starve on our watch.”

 _Small blessing, that,_ Sid thought uncharitably, his belly begging for anything out of the bag. He’d even eat curried eggplant, his least favourite meal at any Indian restaurant. 

Joss wandered down behind Alf, eating Tikka Masala, from the smell of it, out of the carton. He grinned at Sid as if they were old mates instead of captor and kidnapper.

“Come on in. I’ve cleaned the place, since the previous tenant must’ve left in a great rush.” Sid waved a hand at the two horses. Syah raised his head with mild interest but Faerie visually tracked the intruders all through the barn. “There’s a table in that little kitchen, by the tack room.”

“Never went in here!” Joss said in surprise, setting his takeaway carton on the table. “Homely, innit?” He poked about, even opening the fridge door to peer in at the ice cubes. “No weapons hidden inside.”

Alf watched, arms crossed over his massive chest, keeping hold of the food. He was clearly going to remain the jailer.

“Cuppa?” Sid asked, clamping his thumb and forefinger around the electric kettle to pour out hot water. The weight on the rest of his hand and wrist was dreadful. “There’s only PG Tips, but it goes a treat with the curry.”

“I’ll be mother.” Joss easily plucked the kettle from Sid’s unsteady grip. 

“I’ve made mine already.” Sid pointed at his own mug, perching on the edge of the counter to give Alf and Joss the two chairs. 

Alf set the remainder of the food on the table, taking out his portion and a plastic fork, leaving one carton. “Pass me th’tea, Joss,” he grunted, never taking his eyes off Sid.

After downing a third of his cooling tea, Sid investigated his dinner. Wonder of wonders, it was a delicious green curry, not too spicy but brimming with chicken, carrots and spinach over rice. Something he would have chosen himself. His estimation of Alf rose ever so slightly. He ate quietly for a few minutes, watching Alf and Joss shovel in theirs. They drank not one, but two cups of tea, each. Bless for the spicy food.

Time—could be he now had more than he’d hoped for. He checked his wristwatch, half past seven already.

“Took me ransom Polaroid to London, did you?” Sid asked, keeping his voice curious but non-threatening. “In the ‘copter?”

Alf threw him a hard, angry stare, his brown eyes full of the promise of all the painful ways he could hurt smaller ex-jockeys.

Sid let the menace wash over him, without acknowledging his own fear. He’d been accused—most often by his ex-wife, Jenny—of being reckless and heedless of his own safety. That wasn’t entirely true. He’d admit to having an addiction to adrenalin, but he took care of his health as well as he could, considering how frequently he ended up in dangerous situations.

“Went to get ‘is nibs,” Joss blurted out, his mouth full of Tikka Masala. He took a long swallow of tea and stared down at his empty cup as if surprised. He blinked twice, very slowly.

“Shut your ‘ole, idjit,” Alf snapped, tossing back the last of his tea. “If you must know, it’s Senor Bautista, come to claim ‘is horses.”

“The bloke spearheading horse racing in Columbia?” Sid asked, surprised. He’d heard of the man, but not in connection to Knowland. So the horses had been purchased legally? Sid felt a pang of regret. He’d grown accustomed to the fractious Faerie and her stalwart beau Syah, and would miss having them around. If Bautista was mixed up in this emerald and drugs smuggling, what would happen to the horses? “He a friend of Knowland?”

“Never you mind, ‘Alley,” Alf said gruffly. 

“’Cording to Mr K, CI5’s been nosin’ ‘round Bautista’s digs,” Joss confided. He rubbed his forehead like he had the beginning of a whopping headache. “Had to leave… erm…London, ‘e did.”

“No more o’this. ‘Alley’s not—“ Alf stood abruptly, wavered and sat down with a confused expression. “What’s—“ He stared at Joss, grabbing his partner’s arm as if to shake him.

Joss’ eyes closed, opened very briefly and then slid shut like garage doors locking down. With boneless grace, he slithered out of his chair onto the floor, lying in a heap with his head under the table.

Sid didn’t move, keeping his distance. He knew from experience that horses would try to hold out against the tranquillising effect of the Ketamine for as long as possible. Alf appeared to be doing the same. Sid had no idea how much drug the two yobs had ingested nor how long they’d be unconscious.

“Wha’d you do?” Alf demanded, fighting the languor. His mouth drooped, drool spilling out. He raised a hand to wipe his lip but his arm was clearly not obeying commands. Alf’s big head hit the table with a loud thud and he was out cold.

“Time’s wasting,” Sid called softly to his horses, running for Faerie’s stall.

He’d spent some of the afternoon considering which horse to ride. Racehorses were bred to run; both would be powerful, and he’d seen them in action in past televised races. They were powerful animals. Syah, with his even disposition and gentle nature, was probably far safer for a man with one arm. Faerie Lights’ unpredictable temper would undoubtedly be like sitting astride a rocket. However, she couldn’t be trusted to follow on a lead as Syah would. 

Or more likely, Syah would simply follow behind his ladylove. Sid had decided on the white demon even before inviting Alf and Joss into the barn. He’d already put on her bridle in anticipation of their escape. The risk of Alf and Joss noticing a saddle on her back had been too great, so he’d decided it was best go without.

Not a problem as long as he got away.

~*~

Chico breathed in and out very slowly, keeping his eyes on the pilot’s huge earphones. As long as he didn’t look out the windows, he was relatively all right. Wedged between Bodie and Doyle in the back seat of the helicopter, Chico did his best to pretend this was not the first—and if he had his way, only— time he’d ever been in a helicopter.

He’d never been a good flyer. His stomach had pitched sideways as the chopper rose above London and hadn’t settled since. He pressed his lips together—bad form to sick up all over his friends--and held onto Sid’s prosthesis.

“We’re in luck,” the pilot’s cheerful voice came through Chico’s ear protecting headphones. “Stays light ‘til after nine pm this time of year, and there’s no sign of rain.”

“Great,” Doyle replied, his voice vibrating slightly from the helicopter and their microphones attached to the headphones. “Get us there yesterday.”

“And in one piece,” Bodie added grimly.

~*~

With only half interest in what Knowland and Bautista might be up to at the main house, Sid cautiously pushed open the barn door. Faerie was excited, practically prancing in place, ready to run her heart out. She nickered, poking her nose against Sid’s shoulder to encourage him to move.

Not a soul in the barnyard, not even a stray blackbird or sparrow. Why weren’t there any stable boys? Surely Knowland hadn’t expected Alf and Joss to care for the horses? Syah and Faerie would have starved to death before Bautista took them to Columbia. Or had he been planning to train them here? So many questions, so few answers.

Sid glanced back at his charges. Syah nodded his big black head gravely; he looked anxious for a run. Clearly aware of the tension in the air, Faerie blew air through her nostrils but didn’t make any other noises. Leading the horses around the barn, Sid mounted Faerie. Without a mounting block, stirrups, or two working hands, it was not his finest manoeuvre ever, but Faerie didn’t seem to mind. She went from standing still to a canter and then full gallop within seconds. 

Clutching the reins in his two good fingers, Sid bent low over Faerie’s pure white neck, the exhilaration of her power overwhelming. He took one look over his shoulder at Syah. As he’d expected, the gorgeous black stallion galloped behind, midnight mane flowing in the wind. They could do this!

Sid focussed forward, seeing the perimeter fence up ahead. So did Faerie. She gathered her legs, sailing over the obstacle as if they’d spent months training for a steeplechase.

~*~

“Yer location coming up,” the pilot announced, dipping the chopper to the right.

Doyle peered out his side of the helicopter. An elegant manor, presumably Kennington House, sat on several acres of land with trees at the back. There was also a white barn and stables. A blue and silver helicopter perched on the front drive, as out of place in a Victorian manse as a giant wasp.

“That how they got the ransom demand to HQ so quickly?” Bodie asked, craning his neck around Chico to see the other helicopter.

The pilot took his bird in a lazy circle, over a race track and a small town with the requisite gothic church, and then back toward the property. “Shall I set down in the fields beyond, or drop you in Willingborough Road?”

“Safer to put us in the field,” Doyle answered. “We’ve notified the local constable, and he’s marshalling his troops to prevent the inhabitants from escaping on the main road.”

“No doubt, all two of them,” Bodie scoffed. He frowned, pointing downward. “What the hell is that?” 

Straining his eyes, Doyle saw what appeared to be a man astride a white horse, leaping a fence about a mile away from the manor. A black horse galloped directly behind.

“That’s Sid!” Chico bellowed happily. “Taken things into ‘is own ‘and, ‘asn’t he?”

“That’ll make the mop-up far easier,” Bodie muttered. “Terry, can you put us down over there on the right? Not too near the white horse, or she’ll kick your ‘copter to bits.”

Doyle grinned tightly. Their operation had taken a turn for the better. With the kind of luck they were having, Bautista and Knowland would be none the wiser that the authorities were about to burst in, and they’d nick the two at the same time.

~*~

When the black and gold helicopter buzzed overhead, Faerie laid her ears back and put on a burst of speed. She cleared the next fence so perfectly, she’d have won Olympic gold in show jumping. Sid had one second to see the aerial invader before the jump, but something seemed right, maybe even hopeful. He didn’t know what he’d seen that had given him such a boost.

Aware of Syah going over the fence seconds behind them, Sid wheeled Faerie around, running parallel to the wood and stone wall, toward the helicopter coming down for a landing. As it hovered over the pasture, wind whipping furiously around them, Faerie bucked, nearly pitching Sid off her back. She squealed in alarm, refusing to go any closer to the giant bug, despite the fence that separated them.

“Hup, Faerie, shush,” Sid murmured, panting. He stayed atop the horse, walking her in quieting circles, keeping his eye on the copter. He’d glimpsed a leather clad arm out the open window, but couldn’t quite see who was inside. 

The fact that they were landing so far from the house was either suspicious or a good sign. 

He nearly cheered when he saw Bodie climb out of the helicopter, followed by Doyle, and then Chico, holding a battered bio-electric prosthesis.

~*~ 

Whooping with glee, Chico didn’t wait for the rotor blades to stop spinning. He ducked under, running through the wind-whipped grass toward the stone wall. The need to pull Sid into his arms was all consuming. No matter who saw them. Bodie and Doyle were aware they were a couple, just as he knew the two of them slept together.

Sid slid off Faerie and hopped the fence himself, grinning madly. 

Chico ground to a halt, sure every repressed emotion would spill out of him when there was still danger, and two men to arrest. Besides, throwing his arms around Sid Halley, in front of CI5 and everyone, would make Sid decidedly uncomfortable. Particularly when he was minus his prosthesis. 

“Wot the hell d’you do, mud wrestle with the bloody ‘orse?” Chico cried, holding out the plastic arm. Sid looked horrible—one eye bruised, his lip slit and puffy, and his right hand swollen like a party balloon gone wrong. His jumper, trousers and wellies were liberally splattered with dirt.

“Good t’see you too, Chico,” Sid said dryly, despite his obvious delight. He heaved a relieved sigh and reached out to take the arm.

Chico pulled his lover into a hug, flattening both hands against Sid’s back so that he could feel the valiant heart beating strongly. “Missed you, squire,” he whispered, prayers from his childhood bubbling up inside. He sent a silent thank you to the old man in the sky.

“Chico!” Sid groused, wriggling. “Me arm’s poking me in the goolies!”

The steel reinforced prosthesis mashed between them had been stabbing Chico in very uncomfortable places, too, particularly that extended forefinger. He laughed, touching Sid’s fat lip before stepping away. “’Ow’d you get away with the ‘orses?” 

Syah and Faerie peered over the stone wall at him, apparently growing accustomed to the helicopter now that the motor was off.

“Halley,” Doyle said formally, coming up from behind. “Good to see you.”

“Even better to see you lot.” Sid tucked the prosthesis under his truncated arm. “How’d you know where to come?”

“Didn’t look like you needed rescuing, Mr Halley,” Bodie said in a plummy accent. “I trawled through piles of documents, but our Chico and Ray pulled a rabbit out of a hat and got the address.” He glanced at Doyle. “And I’ve been told not to look the gift horse in the mouth.” 

“Knowland in the house?” Doyle asked.

“Yeah, met the little toad,” Sid answered grimly. “And his henchmen, Alf and Joss are sleeping off a dose of ketamine laced tea in the stables.”

Bodie laughed out loud. “Now who’d ruin a perfectly good cup of tea like that?”

“Can’t imagine,” Chico said, keeping one arm around Sid’s waist. He could feel Sid’s fatigue in the way that Halley leaned against him more than usual. 

“Oh, and, according to Joss, Ignacio Bautista objected to your mob searching his house and hitched a ride on their helicopter,” Sid added. 

“We’d best earn our pay, then, yeah?” Bodie checked his watch. “We’re to rendezvous with the local police.”

“Tally-ho,” Doyle said. “You two stay here, get reacquainted.”

“Won’t get any argument from me, gov.” Chico snorted at exactly the same time as Syah did.

Sid burst out laughing.

~*~

After walking nearly a mile to the main road, Doyle and Bodie met up with a whippet thin man bearing a detective constable’s badge. DC McFadden introduced them to a handful of local representatives from MI5. Their black sedan was parked next to the single panda car.

“Can’t tell they’re agents, can you?” Bodie said sarcastically, raising his eyebrow. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt joyous. They’d won—well, almost.

“As if they had a placard on the side of the door marked Queen’s men.” Doyle chuckled, his eyes merry.

Bodie grinned, feeling the shift in Doyle’s mood. He’d vacillated between introspective and low simmering anger for the last twenty-four hours. Finding Sid, hale and only slightly battered, had clearly helped. Not to mention—Bodie was quite certain—distance from Ponce Eddie. He was very curious exactly how Barnes and Doyle had managed to get Knowland’s address, but that was for another time.

Approaching the house was ridiculously easy. No guards, not even a large Bullmastiff standing sentry on the front door. 

“Jeeves must have vacated his post,” Bodie whispered, sliding his weapon out of the shoulder holster. “I’ll go ‘round back, shall I?”

“Care to take a few minions?” Doyle inclined his head at the three from MI5 hiding behind their dark glasses. “Show them how it’s done?”

This was going far easier than most, given what had come before. Doyle and DC McFadden knocked on the front door after Bodie and his entourage were in place. A small, dark eyed maid answered, a fearful look on her face.

 _“Si?”_ she asked politely. 

Doyle chaffed at the wait, but there was no sense rushing in without due cause. He wanted to get Knowland, if not Bautista, on all charges. Behind the girl, there was music playing in some room, a pleasant, possibly South American tune with a lot of sweet flute.

The two lower ranked Northampton coppers hovered behind, as if not sure they actually wanted to be involved.

“We’re here to speak with Everett Knowland and Ignacio Bautista,” McFadden spoke first, holding up his ID. “I’m Detective Constable Balfour McFadden.”

 _“No hablo Ingles.”_ The girl shook her head, biting her lip.

From behind her, Doyle heard the music stop abruptly. 

“They may be onto us,” he said urgently, pushing past McFadden and drawing his pistol in a single motion. 

_“Ne se puede entrar! Senior Bautista no esta aqui.”_

The maid grabbed at Doyle’s arm but he shook her off, trying to remember his basic Spanish as he ran down the main hallway. _“Lo seinto, senora.”_

“What is your name?” McFadden asked the girl.

Doyle ran toward where he’d heard the music. To the left? The house was immense, but many old manors had a similar layout. Music room in the back where the lords and ladies could enjoy a view of manicured gardens whilst bewigged servants played violas and pianofortes.

Catching sight of a short man with a bad comb-over, Doyle recognised Everett Knowland. “Knowland, I’m with CI5,” he called. “You’re under arrest for kidnapping, drugs smuggling and—“

Knowland swung around, a pistol clutched in his fist. He fired frantically, the bullet whizzing by Doyle’s left shoulder. He ducked, rushing Knowland, anticipating a second bullet. 

“Hang about!” Bodie bellowed from inside the music room. “Or should I announce we’re from CI5 in Spanish?”

Doyle ploughed into Knowland, knocking him flat. The Lugar skittered across the Persian rug out of reach. 

“Get off me!” Knowland shouted, trying to twist away.

“You’re under arrest, my lad,” Doyle said cheerfully, grabbing his wrist to restrain his prisoner. “For so many charges, it’d take me the rest of the day to list them all.”

“’Allo, allo.” Bodie hauled a handcuffed man into the passageway. “Meet our Ignacio, he’s not too happy with how the British government’s greeted him.”

Bautista was a tall, elegant looking man with long greying sideburns and an elaborate mustachio.

“Where’d you come from?” Doyle asked, yanking Knowland to a stand and pushing him against the elegant wallpaper so he could snick the cuffs around the man’s meaty wrists. For a short guy, he was well padded.

“Come in through the window.” Bodie gave Bautista a little shake. “Found our friend here trying to hide a couple of kees of cocaine under the settee. I explained as how that was not allowed in jolly old England.”

The Columbian was muttering malevolent sounding Spanish, but Doyle had used up his quota of the language for the day and didn’t attempt a translation. “I suspect he’s berating us in quite foul language, now that you’ve taken away his blow.” He winked at Bodie. 

“Gave it to McFadden, didn’t I?” Bodie said. “First drugs bust he’s ever had.”

“Rather him than those high class twits from MI5,” Doyle commented, wishing he could chuck both prisoners and be alone with Bodie. What fun they could have in a house this size. Missed opportunities.

“I had no idea what Bautista brung,” Knowland said belligerently, raising his blunt chin. With his hands cuffed behind him, he only looked pathetic.

“Oh, I see—and none of the white powder we found in your warehouses was yours, either, eh?” Doyle pretended shock. “And here we’d assumed you were a drugs smuggler and not just a horse thief.”

“Them horses are mine!” Knowland said hotly. “I was giving them—freely as a gift to me—“ He threw a nasty glance at Bautista. “Former friend.”

“Since you two are such chums,” Bodie said in his boy’s school accent, “you’ll be happy to know he’ll probably be a guest of Her Majesty for some years to come. P’haps you can have adjoining cells.” 

The corridor was suddenly full of MI5, constables and the weeping Columbian maid. Doyle waved them aside, marching his prisoner to the door. “Shall we be going?” he called out to Bodie.

“Indubitably,” Bodie replied, towing Bautista.

~*~ 

“Chico,” Sid said quietly, turning his back on the pilot guarding the helicopter. “Help me with this.” He dumped the prosthesis into Chico’s arms. 

“You’re black and blue, squire,” Chico pointed out bluntly, cradling the plastic appendage as if he could care for its injuries as well. “It’ll hurt worse’n usual.”

That was Chico, practical to a fault. He’d talked Sid into getting the bloody nuisance in the first place. Yet, despite the bother, the weight, the clumsy, stiff fingers and embarrassment of having a false limb, Sid had got used to having it on. If the last few hours had proven anything, it was that wearing the prosthesis was a damned sight better than not having a left hand at all.

“And what would I say t’that?” Sid asked, stoically, holding up his swollen right hand with two fingers raised.

Chico had the good grace to laugh, the unexpected joy illuminating his face. Exactly what Sid desperately needed, the joy that was his partner. He would have kissed Chico then and there were it not for the fact that the helicopter pilot might be watching.

“Sod the bugger?” Chico said, turning the arm around so that the open end faced Sid’s stump.

 _Sod the bugger, indeed._ As he jammed his arm into the socket, Sid leaned into Chico, planting a kiss on his upturned lips. 

“Don’t go away again,” Chico murmured, tongue flicking out as if savouring the flavour of the kiss. “Breaks me ‘eart, it does.” 

Chico leaned against the fence, watching Sid settle the prosthesis into place. Couldn’t quite manage comfortably, but at least it was on. Sid concentrated on getting the thumb and digits to separate so that the forefinger wasn’t pointing almost obscenely, and coaxed a millimetre of movement. 

“Make the appointment for the new model,” Chico chided, reaching out to clasp Sid’s plastic hand. “You looked like a winner on th’orse.” He put his other hand around Sid’s waist.

Surrendering, Sid let Chico take his weight, giving in to the pain of his injuries. “Best thing all day,” he said tiredly, not totally sure whether he meant the embrace or the ride.

They swayed together under the darkening sky as the sun dipped down behind the trees.

~*~

Bodie observed Ponce Eddie walk in, still in prison garb but no longer cuffed. He hated the idea of letting pond scum like him out on an unsuspecting world. However, Eddie had upheld his end of the bargain and had gained his freedom to emigrate. He was not aware there was a caveat. That might take a little of the joy out of Eddie’s ebullient mood.

“Once the judge drops the charges, I’ll have to get a whole new wardrobe,” Eddie said flirtatiously. “Before the trip—these prison overalls just do not accentuate my figure.” He smoothed both hands over his narrow hips, glancing around the CI5 interview room as if someone could be hiding in a corner. “Where’s our angelic Raymond?” 

“Has other things to do,” Bodie answered. “You’ll have the privilege of meeting our superior, Mr Cowley, instead.”

“Just like a cocktail party.” Eddie rolled his eyes, draping himself over the nearest chair as if posing for a page three photo. “Meeting all these new people.”

Cowley had heartily approved of Doyle’s idea to send Milty Fogg away with Eddie. The plan had positive benefits: Fogg gained protection from Belmonti’s expected retribution and it provided CI5 with a way to keep an eye on both Pickup and Fogg. Since they’d be in a type of witness protection, they’d receive a certain amount of support money—and surveillance, in case Eddie, in particular, ever decided to resort to his old ways. 

“A few old friends, as well.” Bodie grinned fiendishly, hearing a knock at the door. Sometimes Doyle could be as Machiavellian as Cowley. 

The door swung open, revealing Cowley and a weaselly little man with a death-warmed-up complexion. Caught unawares, Eddie gawked, his blue eyes so wide Bodie was sure they’d fall right out.

“Mr Pickup, my name is George Cowley and I’m certain your remember your old chum?” Cowley said formally. 

“Wot’s ‘e doing ‘ere?” Eddie demanded, jumping to his feet. He towered over Milty.

“H-hey, Eddie.” Milty smiled plaintively, very nearly cowering behind Bodie. 

“Doyle thought you’d miss London without a friendly face,” Bodie explained, giving Milty a gentle push to move him forward. From what Doyle had said earlier, Fogg actually looked—and smelled—a great deal better than he had Wednesday evening when Doyle and Barnes met him at The White Swan. The nuns at the convent on Barnes Street had cleaned him up and helped him through the roughest part of withdrawals. 

“Haven’t seen this twat in ten years or more!” Eddie declared, imperiously. The long rope of blond braid swung across his back like an angry pendulum. “We’ve nuffin’ to discuss.”

“That’s unfortunate, Mr Pickup,” Cowley took up the narrative. “Because, there have been some stipulations put on your release and emigration.”

“Wot’ve you done?” Eddie glared at Milty, arms crossed over his small breasts.

“Helped Chico n’ Doyle,” Milty said, knitting his fingers together, not completely hiding the shakes.

“Chico, damn him.” Eddie flounced into the chair, the picture of a wronged femme fatal.

Sending Pickup a withering stare, Cowley slid on his spectacles and held up an official document. “Both of you—separately—provided vital information to bring down the drugs smuggling operation run by Ignacio Bautista and Everett Knowland,” Cowley read. “The British government is appreciative of this service and has granted you two clemencies from various charges brought against you now and in the past. Mr Fogg’s aid in the investigation could have resulted in punitive retaliation from dangerous criminal elements, thus, he has been granted protection.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes, sending daggers at Fogg. “I’ve done no less,” he declared petulantly.

“True.” Bodie pulled two blue passports and visa forms from his pocket. He caught Cowley’s smug glance and distributed the identity papers to their owners. “Which is why you’ve been granted leave—with Milton Fogg.”

“I ain’t livin’ wif ‘im!”

“Eddie, it weren’t my idea,” Milty sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “But it makes bein’ in anov’er country easier, don’t it?”

“That’s a positive outlook!” Cowley said cheerfully. “You’ll be situated in Sudbury, Canada. It’s a—“

“Where is Sudbury?” Bodie asked, although he knew very well. He and Doyle had scoured the map for suitable places. It truly tickled him that the city had frigid temperatures in winter, for months at a time. Eddie’d better invest in some quality woollens.

“Ontario,” Cowley put in.

“I’d requested sophistication! Vancouver or Quebec!” Eddie protested, breathing fast as if he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. “What’s in Sudbury?”

“A first ranked university—both of you will be enrolled as students, to earn a degree which will go toward supporting yourselves. The British government will pay for housing, tuition and financial aid for a period of four years, on a decreasing scale once you obtain employment and show yourselves to law abiding citizens.” Cowley nodded, obviously satisfied with the arrangement. 

Bodie grinned inwardly. He, Doyle and Cowley had spent most of Thursday afternoon working out the details, over takeaway fish and chips, plus about half a bottle of Cowley’s finest whisky. Barnes and Halley had given their input on the helicopter ride back to London after the arrests. Chico was steadfastly loyal to his former bunkmates, despite their differences.

“I’ve no skills,” Milty managed, sucking on his bottom lip. “Didn’t finish—“

“Training will be provided,” Cowley added briskly, tapping the air with a forefinger. “If you refuse this proposal—“ he paused to look directly at Eddie who was pouting like a disciplined teen, “then there is the possibility that certain parties may be made aware of your whereabouts.”

“You wouldn’t!” Eddie roared, jumping to his feet. He gasped, pressing his palm against his heaving breast, clearly realising every implication. “Even in prison, Ev could…” 

“Exactly.” Bodie provided pens for them to fill out the forms. “Which is why you’ll take this deal, and fly away to exotic Canada forthwith.” And neither he—nor Doyle—would ever have deal with Ponce Eddie again.

“Do we have your agreement?” Cowley’s tone was as frosty as Sudbury, Canada would be come November.

“Yessir!” Milty bobbed his head vigorously.

“Can’t argue, can I?” Eddie sneered, but he picked up the pen with renewed determination. “A whole new start. Always did fancy fashion design.”

“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Cowley said, ushering Bodie out.

“Masterful, sir.” Bodie chortled, once they were in the corridor. 

“It was primarily 4.5’s doing.” One side of Cowley’s mouth turned up in a crafty smile. “Where is he?” 

Where Bodie had ordered him to stay, in their office. He didn’t mention the command he’d given because Doyle had been more than happy to write up their reports rather than talk to Ponce Eddie. 

Bodie couldn’t wait to retrieve the package he’d stowed in his desk drawer on Tuesday. He and Doyle finally had time to play—and he planned to make the evening very memorable. On Saturday, they’d be going to watch Chico take the next level black belt, something Doyle very much wanted to see. 

“Sorting out statements, putting everything into a succinct report, the sort of thing you’re always on about,” Bodie said lightly, picturing Doyle’s narrow wrists both encased in silver chains and linked with the carabineer he had in his pocket.

“Excellent.” Cowley walked with Bodie to the office door. 

Doyle was hanging up the telephone as they came in. “That was Chico. After our doctor set Sid’s fingers here the other night—“

“More technically, early Thursday morning,” Bodie corrected.

Doyle pursed his lips, accepting the mild reprimand, and lowered his gaze to the notepad in front of him. His long lashes didn’t hide the spark of amusement in his eyes.

Warmth spread through Bodie, centring on his groin. God, he loved Doyle. It was risky playing their kinky games directly in front of Cowley, but added mischievous spice.

“Yes.” Doyle cleared his throat. “Later, on Thursday, he went to his own physician who confirmed that he had relatively clean fractures of the—“ He paused, clearly trying to retrieve the exactly wording from his scribbled notes, “third and fourth middle phalanx.”

“His fingers,” Cowley said, as if trying to speed him up.

Doyle tilted his head back until he was boldly staring at Bodie. 

“Looked painful.” Bodie acknowledged Doyle’s defiant challenge with a lift of his eyebrow. This was fun in a perverse way. “Chico mentioned Sid had to get a new prosthesis?”

“As they were already seeing doctors, Sid made an appointment for that, as well,” Doyle said, placing his hands palm down on the desk. “He was more interested in Syah and Faerie’s futures. They’re resting in his barn, where they belong.”

Bodie caught a glimpse of the silver chain on Doyle wore on the left when the cuffs of his long sleeved shirt slid above his wrist bones. He wanted to rip that shirt completely off his lover and take him on the desk. How much longer did they have to wait?

“Ah, on that front, I spoke to Oliver Ashford, CI5’s primary solicitor,” Cowley said. “Seems Knowland is in need of cash on hand to pay his own solicitor, meaning he’ll have to liquidate his assets.”

“Which includes a certain Arabian horse and his pretty mate?” Bodie chortled.

“We’ve had an affidavit from this Prince Makki that he did in fact sell the horses to Knowland—and was aware that there was a plan to export them to Columbia, but he had no knowledge of any emeralds,” Cowley continued with a brisk nod. “I expect that Halley will be able to purchase the horses at minimal cost.”

“Our Ev seems to have his hands in numerous pies,” Doyle said. “We’ll be following the money, the—“

“Emeralds, the vodka and crack,” Bodie interrupted just to wind Doyle up.

He got a green eyed flash of annoyance. “For weeks to come,” Doyle said. “He’s been requesting to talk to Ponce Eddie.”

“Eddie’s flat out denied that request,” Bodie explained. “To quote him, “no bleeding way,” end quote.”

Cowley chuckled. “He’s one of the more…unique characters we’ve dealt with, I must say.” He glanced at his watch. “I commend you—as well as Halley and Barnes—on uncovering a vast network of drugs smuggling on top of the illegal imports. This was a prime example of why we continue to pursue all leads.”

Only half hiding a grimace, Doyle closed a file and held it out to Cowley. “I’ve typed up reports on the last forty-eight hours, with all current evidence and links to drugs operations noted.”

“Quite thorough, no doubt.” Cowley tucked the file under his arm. “I’m keen to read your summary. If you two have nothing else to occupy your time—“ he said, striding to the empty corridor, “I would suggest you clock out before something else comes up.”

Bodie held his breath, watching until Cowley had disappeared around the corner. Closing the door, he leaned against the frame, staring at Doyle.

“You think he knows?” Doyle asked explosively, barely above a whisper. 

“Flaunting your wares, you were,” Bodie chastised, his heart thumping. If, in fact, the Cow did suspect that the two of them were involved, would he use their relationship against them? “But when Uncle George says flee, I reckon we follow his recommendation.”

Doyle inhaled, his chest heaving in a manner that shoved Cowley right out of Bodie’s consciousness. _It was time to play._

Bodie raked his eyes up and down Doyle’s lean frame, taking his time before saying anything. “A lad like you, going to pubs in Limehouse—you’d do anything to—“ He smiled with just his teeth, watching Doyle’s erection push against his flies.

Canting his hips to accentuate the bulge, Doyle draped his right arm over the edge of the bookcase. “Gov,” he drawled, sounding remarkably like Chico Barnes, “got no where else. Dangerous blokes ever’ where. Need protection, don’ I?”

“Protection?” Bodie repeated, wrapping his fingers around Doyle’s left wrist, and clamping down on the heavy links.

His breath stuttering out on an exhale, Doyle froze, pupils dilating even in the bright overhead light. 

“Or custody? Which is it?” Bodie said, low and sensual, feeling the chain dig into Doyle’s arm. “May have to take you to me inner sanctum and have me way with you—“

Doyle burst out laughing. “Inner sanctum? Doctor No, are you then?” He twisted free, poking a finger at Bodie’s chest.

“Get out of here,” Bodie snarled with a grin. _They always played at his place._ “My flat, and drive as fast as the law will allow.”

~*~

Doyle knelt, completely nude, arms clasped behind his neck which made his elbows stick out on either side like improvised wings. Bodie had fastened a thick silver chain onto his right wrist to match the one he already wore, and a carabiner dangled from the bracelet like a kinky charm. It was heavy, a reminder of what they were about to do, but not nearly as heavy as his aching penis. His cock pressed against his belly, already painfully hard, and they hadn’t begun to play.

Bodie stood behind him. Doyle heard him breathing, had heard him moving around in the bedroom, but neither of them had spoken for several minutes. It was unnerving, it was— Doyle could not have identified each and every one of the raw emotions swirling inside him. When could he ever? He untangled one, possibly two—elation and fear. It was a good fear—the kind that ramped up adrenalin and put the senses on high alert. 

Physical sensations assailed him. The rug was scratchy under his knees. Doyle shifted to ease the pins and needles in his feet, feeling a trickle of sweat roll down the back of his neck. The scent of leather coming from Bodie was intoxicating, and the tick of the old fashioned clock on the night stand kept him on edge. What was going to happen? When? 

It was going on six pm. Bodie had promised that they would indulge in their favourite kinks for several hours. Even if Doyle ended up with a few bruises or aches, he’d have Saturday morning to recuperate before they went to watch Chico earn his fourth degree black belt.

“I want this, Bodie. I want us,” Doyle said into the silence. His heart was so loud in his own ears he wondered if Bodie could hear his rapid pulse. Did he know that Doyle’s heart beat only for him?

There was a rustle of clothing and Bodie bent down to bring Doyle’s arms down and attach the carabiner to the left bracelet. Leather brushed against Doyle’s skin. Bodie was wearing leather gloves! His breath was hot against Doyle’s neck, drying the sweat. 

Wrists restrained at the small of his back, Doyle had to fight a sudden panic. He’d been anticipating this moment for so long but _bloody hell._ These were made from unforgiving metal, not the leather bands with snaps they’d played with before. There was no getting out of the heavy bracelets. He was at Bodie’s mercy.

_And he liked it._

“Thank you, master,” Doyle said carefully. He didn’t have a single flashback of being captured, tied and bullied. This was all for love.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Bodie whispered in his ear. “Stand up, let me see you.” He hooked a gloved hand under Doyle’s armpit, guiding him to his feet. “At ease, like the good copper you are.” 

Widening his stance, Doyle entwined his fingers behind his back. As he puffed out his chest, the metal links on his wrists pressed against his spine. He shivered; not hot nor cold but charged with desire.

Doyle raised his eyes to get a good look at his lover— _his master_. Bodie had used his free time to change from the polo shirt and brown trousers he’d had on at CI5. Besides the kidskin driving gloves, he wore tight jeans and the disreputable but incredibly sexy dark leather jacket he generally only used undercover. His muscled chest gleamed underneath, and it was all Doyle could do not to lean in and sink his teeth into one of Bodie’s pert nipples. The silky jacket lining sliding against bare skin must be such an erotic feeling. Doyle’s groin throbbed at the thought of that silk on his own body and his cock leaked as if begging for touch.

“You want it so beautifully, don’t you?” Bodie asked, running his forefinger against Doyle’s lower lip.

Doyle knew better than to put out his tongue, possibly take a lick. He’d done that before, been disciplined for it. Bodie had never once smacked him, not even a belt or cricket bat like an old fashioned headmaster at a public school. He had sneakier ways—cock rings or a ice up the arse that heated up the arousal like nothing else.

Disobeying did have its rewards.

“I have something special for this pretty mouth.” Bodie leaned in for a kiss, taking possession, his tongue thrusting against Doyle’s to keep it at bay. 

Doyle’s whole body flushed with feverish need and he arched his groin against Bodie’s jeans. Bodie’s erection was thick and oh-so warm, outlined perfectly in blue fabric. 

“Too soon, my lad, too soon.” 

Bodie danced back, laughing when Doyle wobbled, his balance off because of his cuffed wrists. Doyle had to drop into the mindset of his martial arts, using old techniques to avoid falling. He planted his feet, knees slightly bent, elbows out at right angles. Should have felt like a proper fool, but the lust in Bodie’s face told him otherwise. 

_Bodie liked what he saw very much indeed._

Doyle straightened carefully, looking straight into his master’s eyes. “Please, sir, I want...” 

“I know what you want, but that ain’t the game, is it?” Bodie placed one hand flat on Doyle’s belly, inches from the crown of his needy cock. “You must learn patience. Restraint.” He chuckled at his pun. “And to submit, do what I tell you to do.”

_God, yes._

Doyle nodded, sniffing the heady scent of expensive leather. He stared at Bodie’s hand slide possessively across his abdomen to his waist. Watching Bodie. Feeling the leather gloves graze his own flanks, igniting a fire in his belly. 

Bodie ran ticklish fingers along the curve of Doyle’s arse. Doyle bit his lip, trembling when Bodie bent down to run his warm, wet tongue around Doyle’s nipple. 

More. So much more.

The restraints somehow provided freedom to luxuriate in the senses. He was unable to move away, unable to resist.

Doyle inhaled sharply, the sensation of moist heat on his chest driving him wild. Forgetting the metal cuffs, he tried to bring his arms forward and only succeeded in scraping the tender flesh on the inside of his wrists.

“Steady on.” Bodie brushed his fingers along Doyle’s jaw line, tracing the shape of his mouth. “Another kiss and then something very special I’ve been wanting to try out on you.” 

“You keep promising…” Doyle taunted, playing the brat. 

“And you earn every discipline I can dole out,” Bodie replied with a devious grin. He raised that devilish eyebrow with infuriating grace and fetched a small leather satchel. “Whilst at the dentist on Tuesday, Dr Myron used what I thought should have been classified under kinky accoutrements on me mouth.” He pulled out a tangle of curved metal braced on each side by a jagged metal strip. “It’s called a dental ratchet gag.”

Doyle’s belly twisted and he pursed his lips to prevent the thing entrance. Simultaneously, his balls clenched, drawing up into his body while his erection throbbed all the harder. This was not the first time Bodie had discovered a unique use for a common, work-a-day object. 

“I reckon it would go all the better if we—“ Bodie glanced around the bedroom and pointed to the overstuffed chair in the corner, “simulated the atmosphere of the dental office, yeah?” 

“I’ve been to my regular dentist recently,” Doyle said impertinently, cocking his hip to display his assets to the utmost. He widened his lips, baring his teeth.

“Cowley’s orders, I’m afraid.” Bodie shrugged, raising one shoulder to show it was out of his hands. “If you’ll lie back, get comfortable—“

“Fetch the comfy chair!” Doyle shot back, knowing Bodie would recognize the Monty Python quote. This was fun. Worth the wait—especially when the recent obbo could have had such a terrible outcome. With their friends on the mend, and certain people leaving the country permanently, there was cause to celebrate. 

Doyle dropped into the chair without looking behind. The chair was well padded and the chains on his wrists didn’t immediately dig in. If this was a prolonged session, he’d eventually feel the weight of his body on his fettered arms. 

“Spread those legs,” Bodie ordered, insinuating himself between Doyle’s knees. “This chair’s a bit low, but we will have to make do. Carry on, doctor, eh?” He grazed his knuckles along Doyle’s jaw and leaned in for a long kiss.

Doyle unabashedly thrust his tongue, sweeping the lush cave of Bodie’s mouth. Bodie pushed with his tongue, sucking on Doyle’s with pulsing strength. He pulled back suddenly, leaving Doyle gawping. In one swift motion, Bodie thrust the gag in, hooking the curved metal sides over Doyle’s lips to press against his cheeks.

Gasping, Doyle tried to close his mouth and found it utterly impossible. Even attempting to swallow was a chore until he got the hang of contracting his throat without using his tongue and lips. Because he was half reclined in the chair with his arms behind him, standing would be difficult at best. He was at Bodie’s mercy.

Bodie stepped back to survey his work. “Always wondered what it looked like from the dentist’s point of view,” he commented, hands on his hips. 

“Baa-ssh—trr-dah,” Doyle garbled, saliva pooling on his lower lip. He stared up at Bodie, primed and needy. What was next? 

Triumphant, Bodie waggled his gloved finger. “Such a dirty mouth. I have shall put something in to clean it up.” He unzipped his flies, pushing down his jeans far more slowly than necessary.

Doyle would have drooled even if he wasn’t gagged. Bodie was commando, his thick cock sticking out like a rocket ready to launch. Wearing the leather jacket and gloves but nothing else, he could have been cast in a triple X movie. Bodie grinned with raunchy delight and advanced, one step at a time.

Doyle couldn’t take his eyes off those powerful, muscular thighs and the heavy cock standing between them. Where was Bodie going to put that thing? Doyle wasn’t positioned well for anal penetration but the wide stretch of his mouth would be—

_Ah._

He worked his jaw left to right but there was no budging the metal spreader stretching his lips, almost unhinging his chin from his cheeks. It would be impossible to deny Bodie entrance.

_Exactly as he’d hoped._

Bodie straddled Doyle’s lap, knees on either side of his legs. “You’ve neglected your oral health, my lad, haven’t you?” He tapped a finger against the metal brace, pushing it more firmly into Doyle’s mouth.

Laughing inside, Doyle shook his head, his throat muscles constricting. He’d given Bodie countless blow-jobs but this time, he wouldn’t be able to close his lips around the shaft or shamelessly suck on his favourite meaty stick. 

Bodie rocked his pelvis so that his groin pressed against Doyle’s. The sensation was incredible, fire igniting a simmering internal volcano. Doyle wanted to shove their cocks together and rub until he erupted. The slight recline of the chair, not to mention Bodie’s weight, prevented that from happening. 

Frustration didn’t begin to define his mood. Doyle snarled deep in his throat, gagging a little because swallowing was so difficult.

“Tut tut, that’s not very sporting of you.” Bodie rose, taking away the temptation and bringing his penis in line with Doyle’s gaping mouth. “Doctor’s orders!” he said brightly and plunged in.

Doyle sucked air through his nose, feeling trapped. Bodie’s sac lay over his bottom lip, sealing the opening, his penis taking up every other inch of space. It wasn’t at all like taking Bodie into his mouth the usual way, and yet—

Nostrils flaring with each inhalation, Doyle forced himself to relax, accepting Bodie’s rhythmic driving force. He trusted his partner with his life. Bodie wouldn’t let him suffocate. 

“So good,” Bodie murmured, his cock throbbing life against Doyle’s hard palate. He braced both hands on Doyle’s shoulders, thrusting powerfully.

Once he lost the momentary panic, Doyle’s spirits flew. He hadn’t been allowed to pleasure himself but Bodie’s perineum buffed the base of Doyle’s aching cock with every forward movement. Skin against heated skin, the friction overwhelming. That fantastic build-up, that gathering of nerves and self coalesced, balancing Doyle on the edge of orgasm. He only needed one more impetus.

Bodie rammed forward hard, the crown of his cock grazing the back of Doyle’s spasming throat. Bodie cried out wordlessly, shooting his load against Doyle’s tongue and teeth, pulling out as he did so.

Doyle came, awareness flickering, his entire being tingling with ecstasy.

~*~

“Oi,” Bodie said softly, wrung out from his own amazing orgasm. He took one last look at Doyle’s mouth stretched wide before easing the metal gag out. “You still amongst the living?”

Green eyes fluttering open, Doyle gave a hoarse laugh. He moved his jaw up and down with a grimace. “Barely,” he managed, licking dry lips.

“Aches, I know.” Bodie gently massaged Doyle’s cheeks with both thumbs, enjoying the play of evening whiskers and skin under his fingers. He hadn’t had so much fun in months. “Imagined how this would be the entire time the dentist was drilling me.”

Doyle snickered. “Surely Dr Myron didn’t give that kind of service!” 

“A filthy mind to go with that dirty mouth.” Bodie rolled his eyes, stealing a kiss. “Fancy a cuppa, do you?”

“Berk.” Doyle stuck out his tongue, pulling a face. “Water with a Newcastle chaser.”

“You do go on, don’t you?” Bodie snorted, easing Doyle out of the chair. His long lean frame, impossibly narrow waist and broad chest whet Bodie’s appetite for more delights. Later, after some food. “Demanding sod. I’ve got Whitbread in, if it suits Your Highness?”

“Whatever wets me whistle.” Doyle brayed with laughter, clearly delighted with his own joke.

“I’d wet your…” Bodie almost let him fall back into the cushions, and stared at his prisoner’s deflated willie. “Whistle once it’s tooting again.”

“Think you’re funny, do you?” Doyle sneered, heading to the loo. “Need to brush me teeth.”

“Semen has marvellous whitening powers,” Bodie proclaimed, admiring the way Doyle’s wrists were crossed behind his back. The skin was reddened, but the smooth metal links hadn’t caused bleeding.

“Release me,” Doyle said, quietly over his shoulder. Not a request, more a patient demand. 

Bodie didn’t move immediately, watching Doyle shift his arms. Emotions flittered across his face as if he couldn’t chose which one. Bodie knew him well enough, it would be aggro and force.

Doyle turned, his green eyes glittering. “Release me,” he said, dark and forceful, the way he’d threaten a recalcitrant grass.

 _God, he was beautiful,_ all fire and passion. Impressed by Doyle’s intimidating presence even with drool and come drying on his chin, and his hands cuffed, Bodie unclipped the carbineer, leaving both bracelets in place. 

“You gave me such a gift,” he said softly, lifting Doyle’s right arm to kiss the deep indents the chain left all around his wrist. 

All the fury drained away as if it never was. “I might have said the same.” Doyle wrapped his left hand around Bodie’s waist, reeling him in. “But I didn’t want to be accused of drawing the long bow.”

“You exaggerate?” Bodie chuckled. “Never known it to happen.” He kissed Doyle, biting gently on his bottom lip to add spice.

Doyle smiled against his mouth, the move pulling his lip through Bodie’s teeth. It was so succulent, so very satisfying that Bodie bit him again, using more force.

Doyle surged against him, panting with lust, yanking his lip between the teeth so quickly that Bodie tasted blood. His or Doyle’s, he wasn’t quite sure.

Bodie rubbed his naked cock on Doyle’s, polishing the velvety iron hardness to high lustre, sure there were sparks. Doyle raised one leg, hooking it around Bodie’s hips. Bodie fit his hands under Doyle’s luscious arse, lifting him up and bracing them both against the door of the lav. It was too soon for either of them to climax again, but the stimulation was mind-blowing.

“Naturally submissive, you are not,” Bodie whispered in Doyle’s ear, getting curls in his mouth. “Bespoke, just for me.”

“Don’t you forget it,” Doyle said fiercely, clamping his knees all the tighter around Bodie’s hips.

Bodie’s breath caught in his throat, sure he was orgasming, even though he wasn’t hard. Could he come just from Doyle’s voice? “And you’re bloody heavy, how much have you eaten today?” Bodie complained, because he could, lowering Doyle until he put his feet on the floor. 

“Not enough by half,” Doyle waved a hand toward the kitchen as he walked into the loo. “Surely you’ve got something for tea?”

“Never you fear, my pet,” Bodie teased. “Rabbit food for you, red meat for me.” He’d stopped at the shops earlier to get beefburgers, corn, and potatoes to fry. Just thinking about food made his stomach rumble. He padded into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Turning on the small television in the lounge, Bodie listened to the cricket scores while peeling the potatoes. 

_“Once a week, it is the custom on Sports Chat to revisit popular figures who haven’t been in the news of late,_ ” the presenter Niall Flynn said on the screen. _“Tonight, we’re highlighting Queen Elizabeth’s favourite ex-jockey turned private detective, Sid Halley.”_

“Sid didn’t mention being on the telly!” Doyle said, coming into the lounge in Bodie’s dark blue satin dressing gown.

Far from rebuking Doyle for wearing clothing without permission, Bodie wanted to command that he wear that colour—and the silver chains on both wrists—whenever they were alone. He was gorgeous, imperious as an aristocrat with the face of a god in a Renaissance masterpiece. The misaligned cheekbone and crooked teeth only served to make him mortal, like the rest of them.

“Sid’s never been one to promote himself.” Bodie leaned forward as old footage of Halley riding a racehorse across the finish line flashed on the screen. Afterwards was a more bucolic scene as he groomed Zarathustra in the paddock.

 _“Halley is in the process of remaking himself once again,”_ Flynn announced as more images came on. _“He’s in the process of acquiring two more racehorses.”_ A shot of Chico and Sid leading Syah and Faerie into the barn played. It was obvious that Sid had bandages on his right hand but the injury went unmentioned. _“Should we add trainer to your list of accomplishments, Halley?”_ Flynn smiled into the camera. _“Be sure to tune in tomorrow night for the results of the American football exhibition game between the London Ravens and the visiting San Francisco, California team, the Fortyniners.”_

“Chico and Sid are fans of the London Ravens.” Doyle plunked down next to Bodie on the sofa. “Fancy a game of chase the pigskin after the black belt competition?”

“Not when I could chase this bit of skin—“ Bodie grabbed Doyle’s cock.

“Betting on the home team, are you?” Doyle whooped, tackling Bodie down to the cushions. “How long until tea?”

Bodie lay back, the sides of his leather jacket falling open and baring his chest for Doyle’s onslaught. “You’re on top, you decide!”

The End


End file.
